


Unlikely

by HermioneVoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Flashbacks, Fred Weasley Lives, Friendship/Love, Hogwarts, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 68,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneVoid/pseuds/HermioneVoid
Summary: George knows it can't happen, even though he's loved her since he was 16. They wouldn't make any sense - it would be the most unlikely pairing that nobody saw coming.But were they looking close enough?Split between George and Hermione's points of view, the rebuilding of Hogwarts is no easy task. They grow, together.This story is a detailed post war account exploring the past and present of their relationship. Very few mentions of violence, but tagged as a precaution.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley, Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/George Weasley, Ron Weasley/Other(s)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 82





	1. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading so far. Just to be clear about my take on the HP canon this is working around:
> 
> \- Fred lives, and this drives a considerable amount of the plot.  
> \- Every few chapters will be a flashback, a memory or a dream. The timeline is linear around it, they're purely for context and insight.  
> \- Hermione and Ron never got together. This is explained through the course of the story.  
> \- Neville and Hannah Abbott, not Neville and Luna.  
> \- I have no idea how long this will be! We shall see. 
> 
> Please, if you're enjoying my attempt at a narrative, comment your thoughts. Ive always thought George and Hermione should have been a pair. Suggestions are welcome. Thank you!

**The Great Hall, 3 May 1998**  
  
The cold morning air was ripped from his lungs, the weight of the hall and world around him crushing his insides and suffocating him slowly.

George didn’t fight the tears this time, and let them flow steadily down his scorched and bloodied face, trailing a path in the grime down his cheeks. He took a shuddering breath in an attempt to ground himself, and squeezed his mother’s hand. He could feel Molly shaking, supported on her other side by his father, who met George’s eyes for the first time since the fighting stopped and Voldemort fell.

George was sure he could see everything he was feeling and failing to accept – the agony of the impossibility that Fred was no longer alive – reflected in the watery hazel of his father’s eyes.

George and Fred’s eyes, too.  
  
As the dawn light crept over the Forbidden Forest, the broken and crumbling Great Hall was filled with the bittersweet commotion of both celebration and mourning, the cries of joy and triumph interwoven with broken sobs and murmurings of the bereft as they held each other.

The battle was over, the war was won. And yet, as his entire family surrounded the body of Fred Weasley, George could only find in his heart the endless chasm of loss.

Most of the fallen fifty and the badly injured had been moved to separate rooms off of the main corridor, but not one of the Weasleys had tried to move Fred. To move him from the hall would be to accept that he wasn’t going to stand up, stretch his arms and smile back at them all like this was part of their plan all along.

Just another joke gone a little too far.

George bit the inside of his cheek so hard he could taste copper. He closed his eyes.  
  
The body of Lord Voldemort was still in the hall. An insult to both the living and the dead, it needed to be moved from sight while the remaining Death Eaters were surrounded and tied by bonds from McGonagall and Flitwick’s wands.  
Straight to the depths of the Ministry and then to Azkaban, George hoped.

Ginny gasped next to him, pulling George from his spiralling thoughts, and he followed her gaze left to see the figures of Harry, Ron and Hermione emerge through a gaping hole blown through the side of wall from the outside.

Not two hours ago, it had been teeming with Acromantula and caved in by the footfalls of giants.

Ginny ran straight to Harry and collided with him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him with such a force that George was surprised Harry hadn’t stumbled. Instead, he gripped her back tightly. After a few moments – and awkward looks from Ron and Hermione – they broke apart.

The “golden trio” as they had often been called, really did suit the name as they stood side by side, George thought, as they were bathed in the warm glow of the early morning sun rising behind them.

Harry’s face was worn, looking like he was ready to sleep for the next hundred years if he could. Ron’s mouth was set in a firm line and Hermione -

Well, she looked exhausted of course. But also hopeful, powerful, cautious, relieved and honestly?

Fierce. Beautiful.

The sight caused an enormous surge of pride and relief through George’s heart.

 _So very, very Gryffindor_ , he thought.

The four of them walked swiftly over to the Weasley family, Harry’s hand still tucked firmly into Ginny’s. But as they approached, he paused – reaching his free hand into his pocket and pulling out a small and rough looking stone.

“What _is_ that?” Ginny asked.

The small rock was emanating a gentle pulse in Harry’s palm, and George could taste the air around them warping slightly.

“It’s from Dumbledore,” Harry replied, frowning. “It’s one of the Hallows, but it’s... it’s burning up. It hasn’t done this before.” He trailed off, the whole family now watching the stone closely.

There was a ripple in the air, the stone seeming to throw out a pulse of energy before going still in Harry’s hand.

“Can you feel that?” Hermione whispered, moving a hand and placing it to her heart.

The thrumming restarted, but this time it surrounded them all and George could feel it inside his chest, pushing against his hands as he instinctively reached for Fred -

“Yeah,” Ron answered, looking around the hall for the source of the deep pulsing that seemed like it was coming from the floor beneath them, yet resonating through body and blood. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

Harry cried out suddenly in pain as the resurrection stone grew furiously red with heat – George could feel the warmth from several feet away and watched with his mouth agape.

“Harry, get back!” Molly called out, reaching for him as if to snatch him up and protect him from the expected dark magic. His mind racing with panic, George lunged forward and grabbed Hermione’s arm and pulled her back from the stone without a second thought, placing himself in front of her as though he was her shield.

 _It wasn’t over, they’d been foolish to think they’d won, Voldemort would kill them all and they’d been so complacent to think they’d defeated him_ -

Every person and creature in the Great Hall watched in shock as the stone soared high into the air, meeting the rise of the sun across the horizon through the gaping hole in the stonework. It was hard to see what happened next, as George had to shield his eyes and crouched down, dragging Hermione with him, to avoid being blinded.

Through his fingers, he saw the stone engulfed in a blazing golden and white light, a sphere of energy rising from the place Voldemort’s body was laying, and a tendril of blue energy connected outwards from the stone to the enchanted ceiling above. Another golden beam from the stone stretched towards George, past his head, past his mother towards-

 _Fred_.

It was over in seconds, and an eerie muffled silence filled the chamber.

George tentatively moved his hands from his face. He vaguely registered that Hermione was shaking under his arms, and that he was gripping her shoulders so tightly his knuckles were white. Had he hurt her?

“Is everyone alright? Ginny? Bill?” Arthur called out, slowly standing up from his protective stance over his wife.

“D-Dad!” George recognised the voice as Charlie’s. He swivelled on the spot to see his second eldest brother on the floor, quickly backing away from the stretcher in front of them.

George’s eyes grew wide.

Fred’s body was glowing.

The same searing gold and white fusion of energy that had exploded from the stone was wrapped around the figure on the floor, radiating warmth and power. Slowly, ever so slowly, the intensity began to fade away until it disappeared entirely, seeping into Fred’s pale skin.

A heartbeat later,

_No this is impossible-_

A finger twitched. Did it?

_What? WHAT?_

Fred opened his eyes.

George stopped breathing.  
  
“...Georgie?”


	2. Dawn

**The Burrow, 4 May 1998**

George's eyes snapped open and he jerked awake with a start. His heart was beating furiously and it took a few seconds for him to realise where he was.

He wasn't in the Great Hall. He was home. Safe.

Specifically, he was in the Burrow's front room. He listened for the rhythmic ticking of the old family clock and the creaking of the rusty pipes, familiar even under the cover of darkness. It was early, before dawn, and he could just make out the figure lying under multiple blankets and snoring softly on the sofa in front of him.

George cricked his neck and rubbed his eyes, knowing more sleep was no longer a possibility. Had he really slept all night on the arm chair? He definitely didn't remember adding a pillow and blanket. No wonder his legs were cramping up as blood surged back into them - he was dangling off the chair, sprawled from one end to the other. He wasn't the small boy who could fit in his father's lap comfortably, while he listened to stories about dragons and merpeople.

_Shit, the sofa._

Quietly, George shrugged off the blanket and crept over to the weathered sofa by the fireplace. He crouched down, and reached out a hand to pull the quilt aside -

"Morning, creepy." Said a low, hoarse voice.

"Merlin's PANTS!" George yelped, nearly knocking the coffee table behind him over in his haste to back off. He froze, praying he hadn't woken the entire house up. Heartbeats later, he relaxed as the house stayed silent.

"You're - you're awake?"

"Duh." Fred rolled over, smirking. George blinked, confused.

"How are you feeling?" George sat on the edge of the sofa as Fred groggily pushed himself up into a sitting position.

There were a few bruises and scrapes on his arms, and a gash on his forehead that their Mum had patched up with gauze. Other than that, Fred looked completely fine. Completely alive. Impossible.

"I'm fine, honestly. Just really, really tired." Fred said. George grimaced, feeling guilty for waking him up. Fred seemed to pick up on that instantly and waved his hand.

"It's ok. I wanted to talk to you away from everyone else at some point."

George raised an eyebrow. "How come?"

Fred looked at him like he was being thick.

"Because, apparently, I came back from the dead...?" He made it sound so obvious. George swallowed.

"Bloody hell, Freddie, flare for the dramatics much?" He joked half-heartedly.  
Fred gave him a lazy smile, scanning his face for an answer to a question George didn't know he was being asked.

"I just - I couldn't believe you were really gone." He eventually whispered. His stomach knotted again, so painful that he closed his eyes and tried to block out the vision of his twin, pale and unmoving on a bloodied stretcher. Glassy eyes unseeing.

"I'm sorry." Fred squeezed his hand.

"You're sorry?" George felt his mouth drop open. "You're actually apologising for dying? I'm not sure you can actually do that - in fact, I think you're the first person in the world who has!"

He paused for a second." Oh, wait. Harry. Yeah, never mind."

Fred chuckled and rolled his eyes, but then fixed George with a much more serious look. "I meant that I'm sorry I left you. Even for a few hours."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Fred grimaced, "I can't imagine how that felt. I'm sorry."

They regarded each other for a few moments. George turned and saw the faintest edges of dawn light bleeding through the front windows of the Burrow. Morning was on it's way, and the sun would rise again.

"As long as you don't go dying on me again any time soon, you're forgiven." He teased, turning back around.

He couldn't stop the next question from tumbling out in a rush.

"How did it feel?"

Fred shook his head. "I feel exactly the same as before. There's just a blank gap in my memory and I don't even know what happened, something about the resurrection stone?" He looked at George expectantly, but just received a shrug in return.

"Nobody knows yet. Just that there was some kind of energy connection between you, the school, the stone and..." George trailed off, not wanting to say the last name.

Fred narrowed his eyes. "Say it."

"Voldemort."

There was a long pause.

"Ok." Fred sighed, leaning his head back against the sofa. George had no clue what to say.

"Well I can tell you now, that I don't want to murder any muggle-borns and I still hate snakes. So, that's something."

George snorted. "I think Hermione's found a new project." He added as an afterthought.

"What do you mean?"

It was George's turn to look like Fred had just missed the most obvious thing. "You're alive. And magic happened in the Great Hall that nobody has ever seen before. She's gonna research the shit out of it, and find out what happened."

"I'd expect nothing less." Fred agreed, a smile pulling at his lips. He stifled a yawn behind his hand and sunk down further into the sofa.

"I'll let you get some sleep." George muttered, standing up and walking over to the window.

The sun was halfway up across the field, the sky merging from indigo to light blue at the edges. He thought of the last sunrise he'd watched, just twenty four hours ago. How different things were now.

"Georgie?" He turned, seeing Fred had one eye open, grinning at him from across the room.

"Yeah?"

"I'm still the better looking one."

George shook his head in despair. "Whatever you say, zombie." He smiled to himself, his heart fit to burst. "Now shut up and go back to sleep."

Fred was alive, home, safe. And still very much _Fred_.

He was snoring softly before George had finished watching the sun come up across the hills.

Making sure to be quiet, he padded over to the bottom of the stairs. George pulled one of the soft blankets - he still couldn't remember bringing it down earlier - around his shoulders, stuffed his wand in his jeans and grabbed a glass of water as silently as he could. Blast those damned noisy pipes. 

He opened the front door and felt the ripple of a breeze across his face. He pulled the blanket across him tighter, and sat down on the porch steps.

He didn't expect anyone to be up any time soon.

Still, once he finished his drink, George placed the cup on the floor by the collection of walking boots and pulled his old pair on.

_Might as well make myself useful._

Trudging through the Burrow's overgrown garden, he reached the edge of the protective spells and could feel the encasing bubble of wards. He raised his wand and began checking the defences. It was methodical, important work that he was sure his Dad and Bill had already done, but George had to check it himself. Better safe than sorry.

The chorus of birdsong in the nearby trees grew louder as the time passed. How long he'd been out there, walking around the house and testing the spells, he couldn't say. He watched the shadows dance and morph around him as the sun diligently climbed higher and higher over the line of hills.

Eventually, George lowered his wand and walked slowly back to the house. He let his hands graze the tops of the tall grass and felt petals between his fingertips.

_Enough, now._


	3. Reflection

**The Burrow, May 4 1998**

Hermione had always loved early mornings.

Today was no exception, as she woke long before Ginny stirred - snoring lightly- beneath her bundle of quilts. Faint streaks of golden light streamed through the roughly pulled blinds, scattered across the small bedroom's floor. One fell across Hermione’s eyes. She slipped out of the camp bed and pulled herself up on the windowsill, perching right up against the glass with a knee pulled up to her chin. She traced the view of the valley with her index finger, the neighbouring trees and sleepy hills dipping and falling across the pane.

Hermione didn’t see the figure slowly circling the house at first.

At a quick glance she saw that he had already breached the wards and was approaching the front door. Her blood ran cold and instinct sent her scrambling for her wand across the room. But she fought her gut reaction, and with her nerves screaming at her to run, Hermione waited. Watched.

The cloaked figure moved into the path of the sun and his hair caught the light. The familiar scarlet of a Weasley.

She let out a shaky breath, and unclenched her hands. The war still felt so fresh in her mind after just a few days. _It’s natural to still be on edge_ , she told herself.

The ‘cloak’ that caused her stomach to drop at the sight of it was, in fact, the frayed patchwork quilt from the living room. She knew that silhouette.

 _He found the blankets, then_.

Smiling to herself, she pulled on a thin blue jumper over her pyjama top and tiptoed out of the room. Unsurprisingly, Ginny didn’t wake.

The Burrow’s staircase was notoriously creaky, but she’d long since learned the trick steps and treacherously loud floorboards. She made it to the kitchen without making a sound. After all, she’d spent most of her summers here since she was a child. She couldn’t imagine spending them anywhere else, come to think of it.

Pulling her wand from the pocket of her pyjama shorts, she cast a _muffliato_ charm around her as she poured water into the kettle and placed it on the old stove. Hermione ducked her head around the corner to make sure Fred was still asleep, and sure enough, the loud snoring continued. He’d been carried in and placed on the sofa sometime mid-morning yesterday. He was so weak that he hadn’t moved from it yet. She frowned, curiosity brewing as she studied his worn face. She would come back to that later. Turning, she checked the time on the Weasley family clock. Apparently it was just before seven, with all of the hands on the ‘home’ position for the first time in a very long time.

Hermione yawned, now on the hunt for teabags. It took a few minutes to track them down – stuffed in the back of a tall cupboard by the sink, next to a faded bottle of _Mr Fondem’s Miracle Mould Mover._ Rescuing the teabags, she rehomed them in an empty jar, found a clean mug and finally cast _silencio_ on the kettle when it began to steam and whistle shrilly. It was far too early for that.

Once brewed, Hermione sipped her tea and thought back over the past couple of days.

The kitchen was in an odd state. Since the Weasley family had been run into hiding just before Easter, the Burrow had been hastily abandoned and left to gather dust. Plates and pans were stacked haphazardly, cutlery poking out from obscure drawers. The teabags were another example.

Mr Weasley, Percy and Bill had ‘cleaned’ the house several hours after the battle. It had been chaos, debriefing the press that had swarmed Hogwarts by mid-morning and helping move the bodies from the building and the severely injured to St Mungos. Much later in the afternoon, Mr Weasley took Bill and Percy back to the abandoned Burrow to secure the wards and check what nasty surprises had been left for them – the words BLOOD TRAITORS and MUDBLOOD LOVERS apparently carved on one side of the house. The garden was still wildly overgrown and untouched. They hadn’t said much about the state of the house, but all three men apparated back to Hogwarts in the evening, grim faced. Hermione shuddered involuntarily.

Meanwhile she, Ron and Harry had been converged upon by friends, teachers and officials in a complete blur of time and faces. All that really stuck out to her was that moment when Fred –

She stumbled mentally on the description. _What_ , she thought, _was resurrected? Possessed?_  
  
The blinding golden light. The crackle of energy, the blue connection from the stone, the magic surrounding Voldemort... It all happened so fast, and nobody had any answers. McGonagall, Shacklebolt and Flitwick had all been as flummoxed as the rest of them. No professor, Auror or ghost had any explanation.

Hermione and Ron hadn’t had much of a chance to speak to Harry since he discarded the Elder Wand. She knew he had carefully avoided talking about what caused him to go out and face Voldemort alone in the Forbidden Forest. There was more to be uncovered, and she was sure it would help her find the answers about what happened to Fred. But for now, she decided to leave Harry in peace. There would be time to talk with him and Ron – years of it, in fact. Relief flooded through her.

 _Ah. Ron_. She winced.

That had definitely not been one of her most thought-through plans. She cringed at the thought of their sloppy, poorly judged kiss. She was grateful that in the end, he’d been the one to bring it up first. In a rare lull of activity yesterday, he’d waited for her outside the toilets on the fourth floor. And she had to give him credit; he’d been relatively grown up about the whole thing.

“It’s not that I don’t love you!” Ron had blurted, ears going red. “It’s just – I don’t think I love you quite like... that. I think it’s like how I love Ginny. Like a sister.” _Subtle_.

Hermione liked to think she’d put it a bit more eloquently. “Maybe we can agree that while it was good to test if we had chem- chemistry” she’d blanched at that, “we both would rather forget about it?” _So awkward_. “I think we’ve both wondered about it. Over the years, I mean. At least now we know.” She felt the blush creeping up her cheeks and willed it down.

“Yeah,” Ron nodded fervently, “I think that’s for the best.” He’d stuck his hand out towards her.

“Friends?”

She had smiled, shaking his hand. “Always.”

 _Ugh_.

Hermione shook her head, clearing the conversation from her mind. There were more pressing things to think about. Like how there was no doubt whatsoever that Fred had been well and truly dead for at least several hours. She remembered his pale, cold body and how she had cried streams of tears alongside his devastated family. His broken form and empty eyes. The blast and falling column of stone that crushed him had stopped his heart for hours. They had grieved.

Hermione shuddered again.

And yet; after whatever it was that passed between him and the stone, he sat up. Spoke. Breathed again.

 _Dumbledore would have known._ She thought, sadly.

She blinked. _Shit! Dumbledore!_

His portrait still hung in the office of the Headmaster ( _Headmistress_ _now_ , she corrected herself) and even an echo of the great wizard was better than nothing. Finally, she had a lead – somewhere to start unravelling the impossible. Since learning the Deathly Hallows were not only the stuff of children’s fiction, she had quietly resolved to keep a more open mind. Curiosity inside her once again bubbled up, so she curled up in the spare armchair opposite Fred. She began to plan.

Hermione was so absorbed with her thoughts that she didn’t even hear the front door open some time later.

“Oh. Hi.”

She jumped, and looked up to see George standing sheepishly behind the sofa. He still wore a dark striped t-shirt and jeans, so obviously slept in and crumpled. He pulled off the blanket from around his shoulders, folded it neatly and placed it on the back of the sofa. He looked calm, she thought, and slightly windswept. But there were dark semi-circles under his eyes, and emphasised cheekbones after weeks on the run hidden by a smattering of freckles.

“Hello.” Hermione smiled, and spoke softly as to not wake Fred. “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure. Thanks.” He replied. She got up and George followed her into the kitchen. He leaned backwards against the countertop and she felt him watching her as she darted round the space to find another mug.

“And thanks for the blankets.” He said quietly after a few moments as Hermione busied herself with the kettle.

She felt the back of her neck flush. “You both looked a little cold.”

Something flashed behind George’s eyes, but he covered it up with a smirk. Once she’d poured the boiling water into their cups, she looked up.

“Thanks for what you did, then.” She said. His hazel eyes met her brown ones and it was his turn to blush and look away.

She hadn’t forgotten how it had felt, to have him pull her down to safety. Unless she had misinterpreted, he’d literally thrown himself in front of her, to shield her from the unknown.

She also hadn’t forgotten the look of pure shock on his face when he realised that Fred was moving and breathing. Even from afar, when she’d been swept away by the crowds, she watched him move as if in a dream state, keeping close to his twin at all times. He stayed by Fred’s side when the Healers came, when they rushed him to St Mungos, and when they apparated carefully back to the Burrow. He stayed all night, falling fast asleep on an armchair while watching over his brother. Because that was the kind of man George was.

“No problem, Granger.” He murmured to the ground as he picked up his mug, offering the other one to her.

She took the cup of tea, and hesitated over her next question.

“What were you doing?” She asked.

He cocked his head to one side, confused. “When?”

“Earlier. This morning, in the garden.”

 _You looked so determined_.

“Oh right.” He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his free hand. “I was double-checking the wards. Can’t be too careful.” He shrugged, and sipped his tea. As casual as the comment seemed, Hermione noted the way his fingers tapped on the ceramic impatiently. How his shoulders were still tense and how he couldn’t seem to fully relax.

“He’s going to be ok, George.” Hermione hadn’t meant to say it but the words slipped out anyway. “I’ll find out what happened. He’ll be fine.” She assured him, keeping her eyes trained on the view out the window.

She felt his piercing gaze as he regarded her. He didn’t speak, the silence broken only by the rumble of Fred’s breathing in the other room. Eventually, she gave in and looked George in the eyes.

“I know.” Was all he said. His gaze was strong - full of confidence and warmth but she couldn’t read something hidden deep below the surface. She didn’t look away.

He reached out and squeezed the hand her hand. “Thank you.” He headed back up the stairs without another word, leaving her by the window with 2 empty cups and rosy cheeks.

***

Breakfast was a late and quiet affair that morning. Hardly surprising, considering Mrs Weasley had to improvise with what could be salvaged from the abandoned vegetable patch and there was little edible food in the house. The crowded table seemed quite content tucking into the combination of fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and homemade hash browns. George dragged a chair over to the sofa, so he could sit right next to Fred, who picked at his food slowly. Hermione saw the worried glances George sent him as he devoured his own plate of food.

Hermione reflected. It was such a change in atmosphere from the anxious and hurried breakfasts in the tent with Harry and Ron. Nine months of running and scraping together meals made her appreciate every single bite. Yesterday – _was it really only yesterday?_ – had been so hectic in the eyes of the press and the reclaiming of the Ministry. It had been just over twenty-four hours of peace.

She hoped they could bask in it a little while longer.

Near the end of breakfast, Mrs Weasley cleared her throat and put down her fork. “I don’t want to make a speech.” Mr Weasley reached across and took her hand in his. “But I just wanted to say how proud I am. Of all of you.” She looked round at her family, her gaze lingering on Harry. She smiled as tears collected in her eyes. “So, so proud.”

Mr Weasley raised his glass of orange juice in the air. “To Harry.”

A quick look to her right told Hermione that Harry was squirming uncomfortably at that nomination.

“How about, to peace?” Harry offered, raising his glass too. “To family.”

Mrs Weasley beamed at him. “To family,” she said softly. All of the Weasleys, Hermione and Fleur raised their glasses.

“You’re gonna have to dye your hair now you’re family, Harry!” Fred called out, resting on an elbow and grinning at him. Everyone chuckled and Harry rolled his eyes, but he was also clearly glad to see Fred making jokes again.

“Ew, no thanks,” said Ginny, pushing a strand of jet black hair from Harry’s eyes. “That would be so confusing. Like Cousin Barney all over again.” Harry went scarlet as Bill snorted into his orange juice.

“Right,” Mr Weasley stood up, dusting the crumbs off his trousers. “Time to go, boys. Back we go.” Hermione watched Percy, Bill and Charlie stand up and get ready to Floo from the fireplace. Mrs Weasley pursed her lips, clearly unhappy.

“Must you all go in? Can you not take one day off? It's finally over, stay home today.” She waved her wand to gather their empty plates and frowned at her husband.

Mr Weasley gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, dear. Kingsley needs all the help he can get. You saw the state of Hogwarts yesterday, and I need to swing by and check the state of my office.” He ducked down to kiss her on the cheek. “I'll get the boys back to you before supper.”

“Hold on, what about us?” Ron asked indignantly.

“What about you?” Mrs Weasley swivelled to look at him, aghast. “You’re just-“

“Don’t say children!” Ron barked back. He stood up, Harry just a second behind him. “We want to help.”

Mr Weasley wrung his hands, and looked from his wife to Bill who just shrugged.

“He’s right, Dad, they’re of age. And lets be honest, he’s Harry-bloody-Potter. He’s sort of important in all this.” Mrs Weasley tutted but Bill turned his eyes on Ron and Hermione. “They all are.”

Harry looked down at Hermione, who was still seated. “What about you? Are you coming?”

“I- yes, of course.” She stood up, and vaguely noticed Fred whisper something in George’s ear. He promptly elbowed his twin in the ribs. George gave her a weak but encouraging smile.

Mrs Weasley grumbled to herself, clearly outnumbered. “Please, please be careful. Arthur, keep an eye on them.”

Ginny scoffed but hastily turned it into a cough under her mother’s furious glare.

“Give us five minutes?” Harry asked, gesturing to the fact that the trio were still in pyjamas. Mr Weasley nodded, and the three of them hurried back up the stairs.

Hermione split off from the boys, racing up to Ginny’s tiny room and pulled on her faithful pair of jeans and a red t-shirt found at the bottom of her bag. She paused. What should she take? How did she know what she would need? There were so many variables in her half-baked plan, and she had no idea which of her books would be helpful, if any. In the end, she grabbed a dark grey cardigan from the depths of the bag and pulled it on, before picking up the whole bag and tucking it away in her back pocket.

She cast a look over the room as she walked out, and hurried back down the stairs. Mrs Weasley was sat with Fred, pressing a cold compress to his forehead despite his protests. Hermione walked over to them.

“How are you feeling, Fred?” She asked. Fred threw an arm over his forehead dramatically.

“The light! It’s dimming! My limbs... so cold!” He joked. Hermione bit her bottom lip to stop her smile as Mrs Weasley clucked disapprovingly. “Nah, but in all seriousness, I just feel a bit weak. I’ll be back on my feet in no time after all these bloody potions.” He nodded over to the coffee table where several bottles of various shapes and sizes were lined up. The Healers at St Mungos had packed him off with enough _PepperUp_ potion to last a lifetime when he was discharged.

“I still think they should have kept you in overnight.” Hermione said, folding her arms.

“What was the point?” Fred raised an eyebrow at her. “Apart from being tired, I’ve had no side effects. They prodded and poked me for traces of dark magic, and didn’t find a thing. I was there for hours and they could only agree on the fact that I’m a walking miracle!” He beamed at that.  
As he spoke, Harry and Ron came flying down the stairs all dressed and ready to go. “Ah.” Fred sighed wistfully. ”Maybe not a one-off miracle, though, with the Chosen One over there.”

Mrs Weasley pushed Fred back down to lie on the sofa. “Enough.” She warned him, sternly. “Rest, now. We’ll talk about this later.” She gave Hermione a look that clearly asked her to leave him in peace.

Hermione waved goodbye to Fred and stood up, joining Harry and Ron in the queue for the fireplace. She looked around the crowded room and spotted George hovering by the back door. She noted that he’d finally changed out of the jeans and shirt he’d word for the past few days. He was now in loose brown chinos with a light green t-shirt, but it was his expression that made her breath catch in her throat. He was looking at her with light eyes barely masking the intensity behind them. The others were all distracted with heads together about plans and conversations on the day ahead, so she slipped away unnoticed and braved walking over to George.

“Hermione,” she stopped in her tracks when he unexpectedly said her name. He said it so softly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand.

“Yes?” His eyes were still kept on hers with that unreadable sincerity. She was close enough now that she could see the flecks of light brown amongst the sea of green.

He tore his eyes away and looked over her shoulder. Then, looking back at her and ever so gently, he raised his hand to cup her cheek. She felt her heartrate quicken and colour rise to her face.

 _Oh_.

“Be careful.” He dropped his hand and moved out of the back door, joining Ginny who was already working in the waist-high grass outside.

 _That’s the second time today you’ve left me alone and speechless, George Weasley,_ she muttered to herself.

“Are we ready to go?” Bill called out to the room, doing a quick head count.

“Be back for dinner, all of you.” Mrs Weasley said as she gave each of them a quick hug. “I’ll be with Andromeda and Teddy this afternoon.”

Harry reached for Mrs Weasley’s arm. “Could- could I come with you next time?” He asked her, nervously.

She smiled fondly at him. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem if she’s up for it, dear. I’ll ask her today.” Harry grinned, grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the fireplace.

One by one, the Hogwarts-bound stepped into the grate and called out its name, disappearing in the familiar surge of green flame. When it was her turn, Hermione took a handful of the powder.

“Hogwarts School!” She called out, turning rapidly on the spot as the Burrow vanished from sight – but not before she caught a glimpse of George resting against his rake in the garden, watching her go.

Her view was quickly obscured by bright fire as she was pulled and twisted into the dark.


	4. Insight

**The Burrow, 6 May 1998**

There wasn’t a bone or muscle in George’s body that didn’t ache. Grimacing, he heaved himself off the porch steps and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the dull pain. He knew he’d overdone it during the past couple of days, working from sunrise to sunset out in the fields. He’d kept his hands busy to avoid overthinking. It was easier to push any feeling aside when you were up to your elbows in soil and earth.

Not that he’d been alone, really. Ginny kept him company, working hard at cleaning the barn and trying to de-gnome the yard as best she could (Merlin’s beard, there was such an infestation. He admired her right hook more after he’d forgotten to duck one time). She kept her head down, still bitter that their mum had so expressly forbidden her from going to help with the rebuild at Hogwarts, claiming it was too dangerous. George couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep his sister close – after all the horrific whispers he’d heard about the Carrow twins – but Ginny was very nearly of age. Both women’s tempers was blistering close to the surface these days, so George welcomed the steady quiet of the outdoors.

It had been another painful but productive day and there wasn’t much more to be done as the light faded and dusk grew nearer. He downed a glass of water by the sink and forced his weary legs to the living room, where Fred was looking much perkier and sat up as he approached.

“You look awful!” Fred grinned at him.

“Gee. Thanks.” George didn’t sit, knowing that if he did then his body would refuse to get up again.

“How’s it looking out there? I really think I’ll be well enough to help for a bit tomorrow. I want to go outside and _do_ something." He hesitated. "I also really want to go back to the flat. I miss the space.” Fred looked at him earnestly.

George bit his tongue, trying not to immediately dismiss the idea. Fred had admittedly been looking better as each day passed, colour returning to his face and his personality increasingly more cheeky. But it was a risk, not knowing the long term effects of his condition. One George didn’t want to take.

“It’s getting there,” he answered slowly, “Ginny’s really cleared up the barn. The gnomes are probably plotting their revenge on us as we speak.” George found the energy to give his brother a small smile. “You’d have to ask mum about helping. I’m not taking the fall if she catches you sneaking outside without talking to her first.”

Fred paled ever so slightly at that, but crossed his arms defiantly.

“I am twenty bloody years old. If I say I’m well enough to do something, I mean it. I’ll run it by her after dinner but it’s my call. What’s she gonna do – tie me to this sofa? Even Healer Thomas says I’m doing fine! I’m sick of this room.” He may have sounded confident, but Fred did a double-check that their mum was nowhere in sight. He was safe, as she was probably upstairs sorting the endless stream of laundry before starting on dinner.

George sighed. Healer Thomas had come by the Burrow every morning since Fred was discharged from St Mungo’s, arms laden with potions and salves. He had fixed Fred with an increasingly curious gaze, like he was a puzzle yet to be solved. Fred answered every question, took every potion and hadn’t even tried to sneak out once. In George’s view, his brother had been the model patient. But even he would resent being cooped up inside for so long with nothing to do, while everyone else in the family was tumbling in and out of the house being so busy. And as much as George loved the Burrow, he missed their flat above the shop too.

He felt a pang of guilt, realising that as useless as he felt, Fred must be feeling it tenfold. George hadn’t needed to explain that the reason he had opted to stay near the house and not work at Hogwarts was so that he could keep an eye on his twin. Fred saw straight through him.

“Please. Help me convince her later?” Fred put his hands together and mocked begging.

“Alright, alright! If I can stay awake that long, I’ll talk to mum with you.” George conceded, and waved his arms in surrender. “But let me shower first. I think they can smell me from Hogwarts.”

Fred chuckled and sank back down into the cushions, picking up a quill and roll of parchment off the floor. “Deal. You stink. See you later.” George spotted their shop’s symbol in the corner of the page and knew it was a list of owl orders he’d been neglecting. Dammit.

He trudged upstairs and almost fell asleep as the hot water of the shower rushed over him. He thumbed his stiff shoulders, trying to smooth the knots gathered under the surface of his skin. It felt good to have the grime and sweat of the day’s work trickle off him, and he felt some of the tension lift as it was soothed by the water. Years of quidditch practice and endless drills - _Curse you, Wood,_ he thought fondly - meant at least there were some decent muscle relief creams at the back of the bathroom cupboard. He spent some time working them into his legs, arms, lower back and shoulders.

Eventually he tied the towel around his waist, shook his hair roughly, and stepped out onto the landing. He promptly collided straight into Hermione.

“Shit! Sorry!” He said. George had nearly sent her falling back down the stairs, but she hadn’t seemed to notice.

“I’m ok – don’t worry about it!” She was clutching a thick, dusty looking book in her hand. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” Her eyes met his and George felt his stomach squirm.

“What about?” He gripped the towel closer just to be sure it didn’t slip.

“I’ve been in the library, and I’ve spoken to Dumbledore – I think I have a rough idea of what happened to Fred.” She had a blazing look on her face and her hair was piled into a rough bun with curls coming loose at the sides.

_So beautiful._

“Hold on – did you say _Dumbledore_? Are you sure?” He blinked as her words finally registered.

“Positive.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. “I’ll, err, let you get dressed first though. Let’s talk after dinner.” She looked away from him again and he remembered that he was effectively half naked. Oops. She turned to walk back down the stairs.

“Wait – Granger – can you help me with something?”

 _What are you doing, idiot?_ The voice in his head screamed at him. He swallowed.

Hermione paused, shuffling awkwardly and not looking at him. “Sure, what do you need?”

George just managed to catch himself before he said what was on the tip of his tongue.

“Um, I can’t reach the middle of my back,” He gestured to the pot of _Muscle Magic_ cream in his hand. “Could you maybe...?”

 _Seriously, where has this come from? You fool._ The voice groaned loudly in his ears. In truth, he had no idea what he was doing. He just knew that he wanted her nearer. For her not to walk away.

Hermione’s eyes widened and she glanced back down the stairs. She took the tub from him, squinting at the label. “This is strong stuff, George. Are you in pain?” She asked, finally looking at him with concern clear in her warm brown eyes.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assured her, “but I’d appreciate your help. If you have time, I mean.”

He couldn’t read her expression anymore. He waited, cursing himself for even asking.

“Of course I’ll help.” She smiled slightly at him and made a spinning gesture with her hand. “Turn around then.”

George’s heart stuttered, but he did as he was told. A few seconds later, his skin prickled as the cool salve was pressed lightly into the middle of his back. Such a contrast to the heat from the shower steam behind him. He could feel her fingers making slow, light circles between his shoulder blades as she rubbed the cream in. The persistent ache that had settled there was slowly alleviated, and the feel of her hands on his bare skin left goosebumps. Soon, far too soon, she stopped.

He slowly flexed his neck and shoulders, relieved that the aching had gone. “Thank you.” He faced her, leaning against the doorframe.

Hermione shook her head lightly, expression still unreadable. “Anytime.” She said quietly. She hugged the book tighter against her chest and headed down the stairs. George released a shaky breath.

***

“McGonagall thinks Hogwarts will be alright to open in time for September,” Bill told the table that evening over dinner. It was a late one, with their Dad coming home long after everyone else finished their days. He looked as exhausted as George felt.

From what he could gather, the castle repairs were going slowly but surely. The worst of the damage had been done to the Great Hall, Quidditch pitch and the three towers. Dark magic left its mark, and Bill was in charge of the team responsible for breaking down the cursed barriers set up by the Death Eaters. It was a promising sign that in four months, Hogwarts should be able to open again.

“That’s if we can convince any families to actually send their children back there.” Harry muttered, stabbing his carrot with extra force. He’d been in a foul mood since he, Ron and Hermione had returned from the castle just before sunset. The attention of the Wizarding world was trained almost solely on him, and the Daily Prophet had churned out multiple articles effectively praising him (and only him) for Voldemort’s defeat. The newspaper barely mentioned the names of the fifty fighters who had also died for the cause. Harry was furious.

“I want to go back.” Ginny said firmly. Molly looked sharply up at her. “I want my NEWTs, and to have a proper final year. To see that it’s changed.” She looked at their mother, as if challenging her. “I’m going.”

“Me too.” George looked up from his plate across at Hermione, who had spoken. “If I’m going to find my parents and restore their memories, I need my NEWTs at the very least. I’ve already spoken with Professor McGonagall and she thinks it’s a good idea.”

He felt another surge of guilt weigh down in his chest. He hadn’t even remembered the full extent of what she’d given up, to keep them safe. George wanted nothing more in that moment than to reach across and hold her hand.

“I think,” Mr Weasley said wearily, eyes on his wife who looked ready to object, “that it’s a good decision, girls. For you to go back and finish your education. Right, Molly?” She frowned, but nodded and didn’t press it further. Nobody mentioned the obvious – that Harry and Ron were looking at each other awkwardly, like neither of them wanted to say what their plans were. George could guess though, considering they’d always talked about joining the Auror Academy.

“We’ll need to make that first quidditch match then, Georgie.” Fred called across the table at him gleefully, breaking the tension. “I can’t wait to watch our beloved sister squish Slytherin into the ground!” George cracked a smile as Ron cackled and Ginny beamed, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

The rest of dinner passed quickly, the moon high in the sky by the time Charlie said his goodbyes and promised to write more often. George gave him a strong hug before he stepped beyond the wards at the end of the path, apparating to the Ministry for an international portkey back to Romania.

_Desperate to get back to his dragons, as always._

Bill and Fleur followed soon after, keen to get back to Shell cottage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow though, Dad, at Hogwarts.” Bill said, hugging their father goodbye. Fleur kissed them all on the cheeks and promised they’d come for the next Sunday dinner. They disapparated with a faint _pop_ into the night.

Fred still looked a bit rough but stayed on his feet. He caught George’s eye and nodded his head towards their mum, who had started on the piles of dirty dishes. Time to talk.

“Let me do that, mum.” George said, casting a quick cleaning spell that sent the plates back into a neat pile in the cupboard. Another wave of Fred’s wand and the cutlery was shiny again.

“Oh, thank you boys.” She said, clearly surprised. They hadn’t exactly shown much interest in household cleaning charms before.

“Mum,” Fred started, “I think it’s time we moved back out to the flat. And before you say anything!“ he held a hand up as Molly glared and opened her mouth to speak, “Healer Thomas can’t see a reason for me to stay here any longer. I’m fine, really.”

“He is, mum. He’s ok. We need to get the shop open.” George added. Not that he really believed what he was saying. But neither of them needed to know that.

Their mother huffed, wiping her hands on her apron and placing her hands on her hips.

_Oh no. Not a good sign._

“You are not _fine_ , young man. You could have been cursed! Or infected with dark magic, or - or worse!” She glowered at Fred. George could almost see the steam emitting from her ears as she spoke.

“I feel absolutely fine! And I am an adult, I make my own choices. We’re leaving. Tomorrow.” Fred argued back. George looked at him with a jolt, they hadn’t agreed that. Fred’s chin was jutted out as he glared back at his mother. It was a standoff.

“Molly. Let them go.” It was their Dad’s voice, coming from one of the armchairs around the corner. He folded the newspaper he was reading in half and set it down. As he walked over and put his hands on her shoulders, George shot a look at their mum to see that she had visibly deflated. Her chin was wobbling.

“They’re just boys, Arthur, he’s been hurt!” Her voice wavered as she looked, pleading to her husband.

“Mum,” Fred’s voice was much softer now, the edge taken out of it. “I swear, if I feel any worse I’ll go to St Mungo’s and then come back home. I’ll have the Healer check on me every morning.” He squeezed her arm, “I’m still here, I’m still alive. But you can’t shelter me forever.” Molly let out a quiet sob at that.

“I’m your mother, dear, of course that’s what I want to do.” She scooped Fred up into a tight hug, pulling him down to her height. George smiled at his dad over her shoulder.

“Oi, get in here.” Fred seized his arm and pulled George in too, laughing. He rested his chin on the top of his mum’s head.

“I’ll look after him, mum.”

She sniffed and released them both, wiping at her eyes. “I know you will, Georgie. You’re good boys.” She composed herself and fixed them with a steely look. “If there is a single problem, you will both come _straight_ home. Do you understand me?`

Both twins nodded. It was as good as Fred was going to get.

“Merlin, I thought she was going to hex you.” George muttered to his brother as they headed outside for some fresh air. Fred took it slowly, as though savouring each step.

“So did I. Oh man, this feels nice.” Fred closed his eyes as the cold night breeze hit them, breathing deeply.

Despite his tired limbs, George felt wide awake and restless.

“Do you mind if I take a walk? I can stay if you want me to.” He offered

Fred batted him away, rolling his eyes. “Nah, bugger off. I brought a book with me anyway.”

George grinned. “Since when did you turn into such a nerd? I’ll start calling you Percy.” George ducked as Fred made to throw the book at him. “I’m kidding! Alright, I’ll catch up with you later. Oh, wait,” he hovered on the porch steps. “Did you really want to leave tomorrow? Can’t we wait a couple more days?”

Fred raised an eyebrow at him. “We can do, if you want. Any particular reason?”

George instinctively glanced up to the window on the floor above. The light was on.

“Mum’s cooking.” He offered instead, and then added “plus there’s still some weeding and reseeding of the vegetable patch you can help with. If you feel up for it.”

Fred cheered up at that suggestion. “Sure, ok, why don’t we leave at the end of the week?”

That gave George four more days.

“Thanks, Freddie.” He patted him on the shoulder then rounded the corner and walked through the cut grass to the edge of the boundary until he could sense the wards. He lifted his wand and began his checks. Methodical, practical, engrossing work.

George continued around the outskirt of the house until his eyelids started drooping and he could barely move one foot in front of the other. It was late now, the stars above were bright and clear against the inky canvas of a late spring night sky.

“I thought I might find you out here.” A familiar voice came from behind him.

_Finally._

“Keeping an eye on me, Granger?” He teased as he finished his final spell.

The dim light of a _lumos_ cast her in a silver glow, twinkling in her pupils. George couldn’t stop the tired but genuine smile from breaking out across his face at the sight of her. She huffed, drawing closer so he could see the arm full of books she brought with her.

“I’ve found something you might want to see.” She carefully put down the books onto the grass and sat cross legged on the ground. He knelt down opposite her, trying not to wince as he heard his knees creaking.

“About Fred?” He asked.

She nodded, flicking through the pages of the first book on the top of the pile. “Here,” she turned it round and lowered her wand so George could read what it said, “this sentence here.”

“Is this _Hogwarts, A History_?” He’d vaguely recognised the spine of it.

Hermione tutted. “Honestly, someone in you family should read it at some point!”

“Why bother? You know it word for word.” He frowned and leaned over the page, spotting the highlighted passage.

“The enchanted ceiling,” she said, ignoring him, “was apparently forged by Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin and Merlin - _the_ Merlin - in the 10th century, by trapping a storm’s worth of lightning at the top of Braeriach mountain. Then they spent 30 days and nights drawing the sky by hand and brewing an Elixir for eternal life. They had the drawing blessed by the centaurs, and combined it with the Elixir and lightning during the creation of the Great Hall. An eternal sky, inside.”

George looked up at her. “Right. And that means?”

Hermione visibly struggled to not roll her eyes at him. She swatted his hands away from the book and closed it, then reached for her pocket. She pulled out a roll of parchment, and he could make out copious notes in her small, neat script.

“McGonagall let me into her office. Dumbledore’s portrait gave me more of an idea. He said that the protection granted to Harry when he was a baby – you know, when his mother died and her sacrifice of a mother’s love made him untouchable? – was stronger than we’d ever suspected.” She leaned in, the excitement of knowledge and answers dancing in her eyes. “The residual energy surrounding Voldemort’s death came from the freeing of the six lives he took to make the horcruxes, with the exception of Harry. By dying, the souls of those he murdered were finally free. Plus, Harry’s protection rebounded when Voldemort tried to kill him, so together there was a massive energy shift. Or something like that.” She peered down at her notes, muttering to herself.

“Horcruxes?” George asked.

Hermione’s smile faltered. “Ah. They’re what we were looking for, when we left last summer. We had to destroy these items, things that Voldemort had put bits of his own soul into. Ginny’s diary was one years ago. Ron didn’t tell you?” She looked nervous.

“No. I haven’t really seen him. Haven’t seen any of you.” He looked down at the pile of books. “What does all this mean, Hermione?”

She pulled out the bottom book from the pile. It was the most elderly, frayed looking book he’d seen. The title was barely legible but he could just about make out the words “ _Lyfe and Bloode Magickes_ ” against the peeling cover.

“This,” she breathed, “is from the restricted section. It has a few sentences explaining that life can only be brought back properly - without negative side effects - in two ways. One is by constantly sustaining it, like with the Elixir. You take it until you die of old age when you choose to. The other is much, much rarer, and I could only find hints that it happened to King Arthur in the 6th century.”

She leaned in closer. “I think what happened to Fred was a transference of life energy. The combination of two significant embodiments of death in the same place at the same time, the resurrection stone and Voldemort’s body, cancelled each other out. Together, they created a life source from the residual energy from the battle, and the freed souls. But here’s the thing. From what I can work out, the school _helped_ save Fred. The spark of lightning that connected the stone and the enchanted ceiling was mixed with the original Elixir of life when the school was built. That went into him, via the stone.”

George blinked repeatedly, his head swimming from the mix of information, relief and exhaustion.

Hermione hesitated, then reached out and took his hand. “In short, Fred shouldn’t have any long term side effects, Dumbledore said. He really _is_ going to be ok. Hogwarts literally saved his life and returned it to him.” She beamed at him, with tired but elated eyes.

“You,” George murmured, “are bloody amazing.” He couldn’t pretend to understand half of what she just said, but Hermione blushed and looked incredibly pleased with herself. “Have you told Fred this yet?” He asked.

“No. I thought you needed to know first. It’s easy to see how this has been burning you up inside.” She said, gathering the books into her arms and standing up.

George’s mouth went dry. “You’re too observant, Granger, its unnerving.”

She stuck out her hand in an offer to help him stand up. He took it, and she heaved him upright. They stood quietly facing each other in the dark, Hermione’s wand still casting a faint _lumos_ at her side. George was so aware of how her hand felt in his. He let it go, begrudgingly.

“Would you consider coming with us to Hogwarts tomorrow?” She asked suddenly.

“Um, maybe. Why?” George tilted his head.

“We need more help, we’re exhausted. There’s only a handful of helpers left, and there’s still more to do on the top floors.” She yawned, stifling it behind her hand. “Please?”

He considered it. “I’ll see how Fred’s feeling in the morning, if that’s ok. I’ll only go if he’s up for it.”

“Of course,” Hermione nodded, starting to walk back to the Burrow. He walked beside her, itching to take her hand again, remembering the feel of her fingertips against his back. “We’ll all look out for him. But, he really will be ok, George.”

“Yeah, I’ll get there. Give me some time to process that information dump you just dropped on me.” He smiled at her. He felt so much lighter already, but his tired mind wasn’t quite up to speed. Deep inside, he felt hope lodge and displace the sick feeling that had occupied his stomach for days.

 _That makes a bloody nice change_ , he thought.

They reached the front door and George quickly brought down the alarm ward so they could step through without setting it off, guessing everyone else in the house had long since gone to bed. They crept through the dark living room, much quieter now Fred had finally moved back up into the twins’ old room upstairs. The staircase groaned and threatened to betray them as they both crept up it. George felt like a fourteen year old boy again, trying to sneak around without waking his parents. He grinned to himself in the dark at the memory.

They reached the second floor, and Hermione stepped towards Ginny’s bedroom. She looked back at George on the stairs.

“Goodnight.” She whispered, and slipped in to the room silently. The door clicked shut behind her.

“Night, Granger.” He whispered back to the closed door.

George continued up the stairs, casting a lazy cleaning charm on his teeth. He opened his childhood bedroom door to the familiar sound of Fred’s rumbling as he slept. He pulled on his pyjamas and dropped into the single bed by the window with a sigh. Unbelievably weary and still aching everywhere, sleep came blissfully quick. For the first time in days, he slept without dreams of golden light and trickles of blood seeping down a vacant pale face.

That night he dreamt of a vast library stacked from floor to ceiling, the shelves disappearing from sight into the sky above. A curly haired figure sat cross legged on a cushion by the fireplace, surrounded by dusty tomes. George sat down next to her, reading over her shoulder.

He felt safe.


	5. Breakage

**Hogwarts, May 8 1998**

“Steady! Hold it there.”

“Almost got it!”

“3...2...1, and down.” Harry called over to the group, slowly lowering his wand as the stone gargoyle was finally righted back in its place. It muttered crossly as it settled down on the cold podium.

“Nice one, guys. I think that’s it for this floor.” They had worked solidly all morning restoring every shattered window and fractured wall. “Let’s take a break and head out to the pitch after lunch.” Harry clapped Neville on the back and walked over to Hermione.

“Good call with the _featherlight_ charm. Definitely didn’t think of that.” He looked sheepishly at her.

She shrugged her shoulders. “You’re really good at this, you know. Giving instructions and barking orders.” She could see how much he enjoyed organising people, even if he didn’t see it himself.

“You mean I’m good at being bossy?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Not even close to how I was in first year. Merlin, that’s embarrassing to think about.” She hid her face in her hands as Ron and Harry grinned at the memory.

“Come on, I’m starving. I think Kreacher and the house elves have put together some lunches,” Harry said.

Ron’s stomach growled noisily.

Sure enough, the kitchens had provided neat baskets of sandwiches and cakes for the helpers at Hogwarts. Their numbers had definitely dwindled as the Ministry scrambled back on its feet and normality attempted to resume around them. The hunt was on for the remaining Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters that had fled into hiding. The trials for the already captured would start in just a few weeks, meaning fewer volunteers to help at the school as the world tried to move forward.

The house tables had been broken up into smaller scattered benches and a few people sat with their heads together across the hall. Hermione spotted Firenze deep in conversation with the Patil twins, and Hagrid casting Professor Vector and Michael Corner in his giant shadow as they ate together.

The late spring air still had an acrid, smoky smell to it from the fires set on the ravaged pitch and Hagrid’s poor hut. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna and Seamus ambled down towards the remains of the Herbology greenhouses and sat themselves down under a surviving tree.

“Sprout’s absolutely devastated,” Neville said, looking sadly at the broken frame of Greenhouse Two.

“So is Hooch.” Said Seamus, grimly.

He’d found Madam Hooch knelt on the edge of the quidditch pitch, mouthing wordlessly, the day after the battle. It would have been a hilariously funny sight if it were any other situation.

“We’ll get there. We'll rebuild.” Harry said firmly between mouthfuls.

At first, the extent of damage to Hogwarts had been staggering – the mountains of rubble before them an overwhelmingly daunting prospect. But in almost the week that had passed, the skyline of turrets and towers had been gradually patched, the endless corridors and staircases slowly repaired.

“Are you guys coming back in September, too?” Neville asked.

Hermione and Luna nodded.

“I don’t know if my mam will let me,” Seamus said, “but our year will have to sit the exams externally at Christmas or something. Never got to take them, in the end. All that bloody work!” He pulled a face.

Neville looked to Harry and Ron.

“Shacklebolt said he could jump me and Ron up the application list for the Academy.” Harry said quietly.

Neville and Seamus goggled at them.

“You’re joking!” Seamus wooped.

“You’d be the youngest Aurors in over a century!” Neville said with his mouth open in awe.

Ron high-fived them, beaming.

 _Bloody boys_ , thought Hermione.

“You should still sit the exams,” she said stiffly.

Harry froze. “Err, yeah, that’s probably a good idea. A backup plan, right Ron?”

Ron groaned and flopped back on the grass.

“It’ll be weird not coming back, and not being in classes with you.” Harry said sadly. It was his way of apologising for not telling her before. Not that she hadn’t worked it out.

Hermione tutted, her frosty exterior thawing slightly.

“Finally, a school year with no distractions.” She sighed wistfully. Harry shot her a grin and knew they were forgiven.

What had she expected? Her best friends had known for years what they wanted to do with their lives. She couldn’t blame them just because she hadn’t figured out her own path, yet.

“I think I’d like to go and see Ginny, now.” Luna said absentmindedly, dusting off the crumbs from her cardigan and standing up.

“She’s at the Burrow, Luna.” Ron reminded her without looking up.

“No,” she said, “Ginny’s right there.”

Hermione twisted her neck round to see a certain ginger girl jogging over to them.

“Hey, guys.” Ginny said as she reached them. She looked out of breath and had a shifty expression on her face.

“What are you doing here?” Ron demanded.

Ginny scowled at him. “I snuck out, nosey.” She joined them on the grass, leant back on her elbows and rested her head on Harry’s chest. He gazed at her admiringly.

“Is that wise?” Hermione asked gently, “your mum’s going to go spare when she can’t find you.”

She internally winced at the word ‘mum’.

 _Don’t do it. Don’t think about them_. She banished the thought from her mind.

Ginny simply threw her long hair over one shoulder, apparently unfazed.

“I’ll deal with her later. I had to get out of that house and see you. See the school.” She looked at Seamus, Neville and Luna. “How are you all doing?”

Neville still sported several deep and ugly cuts across his hands, and a mottling bruise across his lower jaw. Seamus also had dark welts and marks along his forearms. None of them had spoken much about the last year at Hogwarts, but Hermione could see that it had been hell for most of them. Knowing what Luna had been put through on top of that was heart-breaking.

They passed the time catching up under the shade of the tree, the sun above daring to break through the blankets of clouds. The rest of the group explained to the trio just how horrific the past year under the Carrows had been, and it was worse than Hermione could have imagined. First years strung up overnight in the dungeons. Brutal beatings and the use of the _cruciatus_ on anyone who disobeyed the Death Eater twins. Neville used as a human punching bag, and almost killed. Muggle-borns going missing under the cover of night. Hermione felt utterly sick.

After they’d all finished eating, the group made the long walk over to what was left of the quidditch pitch. Harry and Ron hung back to share a look from the others, horrified.

They re-joined the group and approached the scorched green, sizing up the extent of the damage. The enormous wooden audience stands lay splintered and burned, more than half of them singed and the cloth house banners were mostly in pieces or piles of ash. Hermione ran through various spells in her mind and tried to come up with a plan. Just another problem to be fixed – she could do this.

“Looks like you lot could do with another pair of hands -”

“- Or a pair of pairs.”

She whipped her head round as footsteps approached from behind them. Fred and George walked over, Fred grinning at them and clearly enjoying his new freedom. There was a definite spring in his step since she’d sat him down the previous night and explained what she’d worked out about the life energy that saved him. She briefly thought George looked more apprehensive as they got closer, until he gave her a small smile.

“We might be able to help with that.” Fred finished.

Ginny tried to subtly step behind Neville. Hermione heard Harry whisper something with the words ‘Invisibility cloak’ at her but it was too late; Fred pointed an accusatory finger at her.

“ _You_ are meant to be at home.”

Ginny groaned and stepped out to Harry’s side. “I couldn’t stand it! Doing nothing!” She shouted.

George looked like he was about to argue but Fred put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to whisper in his ear. George frowned.

“Yeah fair enough, sis. Can’t really blame you there without being a bit of a hypocrite.” Fred said.

Ginny relaxed, not expecting that reaction.

“But if mum asks, we never saw you. Yeah?” George raised an eyebrow at her. She made a movement of zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key.

“Right!” Fred rubbed his hands together in apparent glee. “Let’s get started! Is there a plan?”

Harry and Seamus began explaining the basic approach they’d discussed with Professor Flitwick and the group divided into two, splitting off to the top and bottom ends of the pitch.

“Hey, Granger.” George caught up with Hermione as she headed north with Ginny, Seamus and Neville.

“Hi. How was the hospital?” She slowed down and fell into step next to him. She knew Fred had been called in for a check-up that morning.

“It went as well as could be expected really. He passed with flying colours. The Healers seized on your notes, by the way. They asked if you’d thought of going into medicinal curse-breaking.” He chuckled.

“No, I hadn’t. That – that could be really interesting!” Ideas and half formed thoughts started whizzing through her mind. Hermione had never considered healing as a career path – she knew her bedside manner was shoddy at best, and the practical side of it scared her. But the research element? _Huh_. She filed that away to think about later.

She snapped out of her internal monologue to see George eyeing her with a knowing look on his face, still smiling at her. She hadn’t seen him smile this much since, well, last summer.

“What?” She asked.

“Nothing.” He kept walking, shaking his head, but didn’t stop grinning.

The butterflies lining her chest took flight again at the sight of his wonky, genuine smile.

 _Focus_. The voice in her head hissed.

The five of them reached the thickest part of the debris and began to work. Some of it was unsalvageable, too damaged by fire or curses but they worked hard to save what they could. A couple of other volunteers joined their group as the sun passed overhead, when they had time to spare. There wasn’t much chance to talk amongst the muttering of spells and physical moving of wooden slats and mounds of burnt earth.

Eventually Hermione stretched, stuffed her wand up her sleeve and deemed it time for a break. Seamus and Ginny were far in the distance to her right while Neville was casting vibrant lassos from his wand in an attempt to pull the foundations of a tower back together. George stood with his back to her. Watching the other group.

She wondered how it must have been for him. What he was feeling, how he was processing the idea that maybe Fred _wasn’t_ going to slip away again. Because she knew, that’s what it came down to. Why she’d seen him patrolling the perimeter of the Burrow when nobody should have been looking. Why he jumped at every innocent noise and constantly checked over his shoulder. He couldn’t let his guard down. Didn’t want to risk anything else happening to his family, to Fred, on his watch.

Hermione knew exactly how that last part felt. And that thought completely winded her, slashing her midriff with a vicious echo of pain. She gasped as it felt like her heart fractured all over again, taking her by surprise. _Shit, shit, shit._ She was better than this – Hermione Granger always had control. Always had a plan.

_I will find you. And I will bring you home. You will remember me._

She closed her eyes against the wash of grief and wrapped her arms tight against her chest as if holding it together. She took deep, ragged breaths.

“Hermione? Hey, what’s wrong? Are you ok?”

 _George_.

She felt warm hands on her shoulders but didn’t open her eyes.

“Hermione?”

She didn’t answer, knowing her voice would crack and the lump in her throat would sabotage her with tears. Instead she leant forwards and wrapped her arms around his middle.

For a horrible second he didn’t respond. But then he was holding her back, hugging her close without any more hesitation. So, so warm. So secure.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He murmured.

Hermione risked opening her eyes. Tears threatened to spill hot and heavy but she blinked them back. Breathing was easier now.

“Not yet. Just, stay. Please.”

George was bending over to hug her in a way she knew must be uncomfortable. “Why’d you have to be so tall?” She asked in a small voice.

He laughed quietly at that, the rich sound of it filling her ears and calming her down.

“The real question is, why are you so tiny?”

Hermione huffed a laugh, and threw her arms around his neck instead. George kept her close and rubbed her back with one strong hand, the other on her waist. She was on tiptoes now, face buried in his shoulder. Somewhere in her brain she logged that his jumper smelt of sandalwood. She gripped him tighter.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, but George slowly set her back down on the ground and stepped away. He kept one hand on her right arm as if testing if he could let her go without her falling apart.

“Time to go home?” He asked softly, checking over her face with concerned hazel eyes.

“Maybe. Oh Merlin, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” Now the worst of her panic had left her, she felt so embarrassed.

“Don’t you dare apologise, Granger.” He warned her sternly. His arm fell back by his side,

Hermione ran a hand across her hair – strands coming loose from her low ponytail and knotted at the ends. Maybe it was time to take a morning off. She’d spent long hours in the library and working on the repairs, pouring everything she had into her research and work. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in past sunrise.

She looked around, suddenly remembering that they weren’t alone. Her breakdown had been public. She moaned quietly, but a quick look round told her that – mercifully – the closest people around them still looked too engrossed in their work to notice.

“I’m just gonna tell Fred and Harry, then we can go?” George phrased it as a question, checking that she was happy to leave with him. She nodded.

George apparated with a _crack_ and reappeared at the other end of the pitch. Hermione had definitely forgotten that McGonagall had lifted the apparition wards so the volunteers could move across the grounds much faster if they wanted to. She saw the two tall dots of red in the distance confer. She picked her backpack off the floor and suddenly George was right back next to her. He offered her his arm.

“After you.”

Taking it, they walked to the edge of the green and crossed through the cold barrier of wards. George squeezed her hand in encouragement and they disappeared with another _crack_.


	6. The Yule Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first flashback.
> 
> Thank you for your kudos and comments! Keep them coming :)

**The Yule Ball, December 25 1994**

“I still can’t believe you convinced Johnson to go with you. She’s done nothing but be frustrated with you all year!”

George watched Angelina and Katie get up from their dinner table and leave the Great Hall together. Probably to go and giggle in the girl’s toilets about their dates. Angleina threw a furtive look at Fred and winked at him before disappearing from sight. George tried hard not to look nervous at the thought of them whispering about him. Katie was lovely, and a brilliant teammate, but nothing more than a friend. His stomach flipped anyway.  
  
“Can’t blame her for knowing a real gent when she sees one.” Fred winked back.

He looked so relaxed, one arm draped over the empty chair next to him and the other running through his shaggy hair.

George scowled slightly. He’d impulsively decided to get his own hair cut a few days ago but now he missed the length of it. While it had been easier to hide behind, it had been getting a little annoying – especially when Alicia had decided she could tie it back into pigtails. Fred and George had been subjected to _that_ under the influence of firewhisky in the Gryffindor common room a few nights ago. Many of the surrounding girls joined in, making suggestions and laughing with them – which he didn’t mind so much – but pigtails? Tiny French plaits?!

 _Ugh_.

That was more Bill’s territory, anyway.

Fred nodded over to the momentarily unguarded fountain of alcohol free wine. It glistened under the shine of crystal-ice chandeliers, and a light dusting of snow disappeared before landing on the surrounding students. Dumbledore really had pulled out the stops, and George couldn’t help but admire.

“Time to step this party up a notch?” Fred asked.

George grinned and checked his pocket for the hipflask of _lobe blaster_ the twins had acquired off a dodgy Hag in Hogsmeade last weekend. Vicious stuff, that. It had cost them a fair amount of their leftover savings, but it was worth the cost in order to liven up the once-a-century event.

“Absolutely.”

He carefully poured out the contents into the pool of red and gave it a quick stir before turning away. Not a teacher in sight.

 _Success_.

It certainly made the evening more bearable, and George reckoned he could have done with a shot or two before the ball had even started as a confidence boost. Katie had taken the lead during the opening dance and he’d just focused on not tripping her up, glaring at Fred as he swanned by (almost elegantly) with Angelina in his arms. _Git_.

At least after that first dance he wasn’t required to embarrass himself in public further. He kept to the edges with Lee and Harper from their year, nursing his drink. George liked people watching, getting the lay of the land and reading the room. Made it easier to time and pull off the pranks he and Fred devised. Also helped them with the exit strategy Fred never quite remembered.

He’d noticed Ron had a face like thunder for most of the evening, ignoring his date. Actually that wasn’t anything special – Ron had spent most of the term looking miserable until he and Harry had _finally_ made up like the married couple they were. But this was different. George followed his gaze and put two and two together.

 _Ahh_.

Either Ron’s adorable obsession with Viktor Krum had escalated considerably into something more, or he was – more likely – fuming about the girl on his arm. In that mesmerising blue dress.

Hermione was almost glowing with joy, her head thrown back and laughing at whatever Krum was saying. Her hair was uncharacteristically sleek and twisted in a sophisticated bun. She couldn’t stop smiling. And George couldn’t stop staring.

“Ahem.” Lee nudged him in the ribs. “You’re drooling.” He and Harper snickered.

“Oh, piss off. I was looking out for Ron.” George snapped his mouth shut and flicked Lee on the ear.

“Gross, that’s even more questionable!” Lee howled with laughter and Harper choked on his drink, rendering the conversation useless as they all fell apart. George gave up and joined in with the joke, ribbing Lee back about his lack of date.

The music shifted after dinner from elegant waltzes to much heavier rock. Much better.

He really did try to awkwardly dance with Katie. They gave up after a few stumbles, nearly knocking their heads together and he’d trodden on her foot more than once. She gave a feeble excuse of needing to speak to Alicia and slipped away, limping slightly. George didn’t mind being left to it, the buzz of the alcohol and deafening music making his head muzzy but improving his mood. The Weird Sisters were pretty cool - definitely better than Celestina Warbeck.

The evening stretched on and, not to brag, but Fred and George easily cleared a space on the dancefloor by instigating in a ferocious dance off. Limbs and hair went everywhere.

Soon, George needed another drink so he signalled to his brother that he was stepping out onto the almost empty stone patio for some air. The difference in temperature would have rendered him shivering in the Scottish winter if it weren’t for his warming ‘alcohol jacket’ as Fred had called it. Flitwick may have been watching him carefully from the staff table – no doubt having his suspicions about the increasingly raucous older students - but out here, George could fully relax. There was just one couple of Ravenclaws pressed up intimately against the wall next to the doors, hidden from view. George did his best to ignore them. They sounded quite busy.

He lost track of time outside, only turning to head back in when he heard the first chords of the only Weird Sisters song he actually knew ( _Banshee Of My Heart_ ) resonate throughout the hall. He found Fred easily, but didn’t interrupt the wild headbanging that he and Angelina were participating in. Tactfully, George headed back to the fountain of wine and sang along quietly under his breath.

It wasn’t long before he spotted his youngest brother storm from the hall, followed by a certain black haired champion. He didn’t think much of it until they slunk back in moments later and disappeared outside, muttering conspiratorially. Both Harry and Ron looked incredibly put out.

“Hey, where did you get to?” Fred had joined him, catching a glass of red liquid in his cup. A sheen of sweat on his brow and red cheeks from all the crazy dancing.

“Just needed some fresh air.” George chinked his glass against Fred’s. “Having fun?” The words were deliberately dripping in implications and smarm.

Fred’s eyes followed Angelina across the floor.

“Definitely.”

George patted him on the back. “Good for you two. I think Katie’s done with me.” He didn’t mind so much, but felt a tinge of guilt. He hadn’t really paid her any attention since she wandered off and joined the girls in their year. Still, she seemed to be having fun – and was now dancing with a bearded Durmstrang boy. George resisted the urge to check his own chin for measly stubble.

Fred didn’t ask him about the date, and instead chose to down 3 more full cups of liquid. Hardly ‘alcohol free’ now.

“See you later?” He asked, obviously keen to re-join his date in the midst of the mosh pit.

George gave him his best impression of a Molly Weasley glare. “Please please please, remember _muffliato_ this time. And put a bloody sock on the door.” If he hadn’t been so tipsy he doubt he would have mentioned it. But, fuck it.

Fred’s ears grew pink.

“Yep. Sorry, will do. Bye!” And with that he disappeared into the throng of bodies around the stage.

It was late now, and as interesting as the evening had been, George was hankering for his own bed. With a groan he realised it was more likely to be a sofa in the Gryffindor common room if Angelina and Fred got to the dorm first. _Bugger_.

The night was slowly winding down as George left after a brief chat with a very drunk Lee. He refused George’s offer of help to get him back to the common room and begged him to stay for ‘ _just one more song_!’ George declined, ducking out the hall. Students paired off and stumbled back in various directions towards their common rooms, loosely supervised by the tired looking Professors.

George hummed the bassline of the last song as he made his way up the first staircase. He’d started to hiccough. Not a bad Christmas Day, really.

He’d rounded the corner on the second floor and was almost to the next staircase when he heard it.

Sniffling.

The sounds of quiet crying.

The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he looked around the otherwise empty corridor.

“Hello?” He called out.

There was no reply besides the sound of someone blowing their nose.

He was completely torn. Fred would have probably told him to leave it – just an upset kid that wanted to be left alone, or more cynically a Slytherin trap for a sympathetic Gryffindor or Hufflepuff to blunder into.

“Is someone there?” He called out again, walking back down the stairs and looking around.

He’d checked all the way down the corridor before he finally spotted the pair of shoes sticking out from an alcove behind the last suit of armour.

“Go away.” Came a small voice, thick with emotion.

George tensed, regretting that last mouthful of _lobe blaster._ His vision was on the dizzy side, and he wasn’t sure if his drunk mind was playing tricks on him.

“Are you ok?” The words came out more slurred than he’d intended. He didn’t recognise the voice, and tried to peek around the armour.

It was Hermione, curled up against the corner with her legs pulled under her chin. Her blue dress had lost it’s floaty appearance and now gathered in ruffles around her. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was red in patches, hair tumbling down her shoulders. She gripped a handful of used tissues.

She glared at him.

“I said go away, Ron!” She shrieked and with startling speed she grabbed one of her shoes and threw it straight at George’s head.

“Shit, _ow_! Watch it, Granger, you’ve got the wrong guy!” His slower reflexes meant George failed to duck in time and caught the heel right on his cheekbone.

Hermione covered her mouth with a fist. “Oh Merlin, sorry George! I thought you were – “ her voice cut off as tears filled her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. Her face scrunched up and she sobbed loudly into her hands.

“Hey, hey now. It’s ok, you’re alright.”

George crawled further into the alcove and sat by her side. Far enough away that he wasn’t crowding her, but close enough that he could reach out and place a hand on her shoulder. He felt quite out of his depth – never having really spoken to Hermione on her own before. She was just a friend of his youngest brother, and always flanked by Ron and Harry.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” He coaxed gently. He wondered if he should try and find Ginny – maybe this was a girl thing.

Hermione gulped for air but the tears didn’t stop. She leaned back against the stone with her eyes closed, shoulders shaking as she tried to be quiet. It was awful to look at – the girl who had lit up the dancefloor all evening, reduced to a sobbing mess in just a few hours.

George was pretty sure he knew who was responsible. He felt an unexpected surge of white hot anger.

 _For fuck’s sake, Ron, you prat. How could you do this to her?_ He thought.

“I’m sorry about my idiot brother,” he said hesitantly, “but not all Weasleys are insensitive arseholes like him. Promise.”

He drew his wand from his sleeve and conjured up a fresh box of tissues. Ok, it may have been floral to the point where it looked like it had come from Aunt Muriel’s sitting room, but it wasn’t bad for a household charm he had no recollection of. Hermione sniffed and wiped her eyes with one of the new tissues.

“Thanks, George.”

“No problem, Granger. I’m here if you want to talk about it.” He didn’t want to push her further, but needed her to know that he really could listen if she wanted to talk. He wasn’t sure where this protective instinct had come from. _She’s your brother’s best mate_ , said the voice in his head, _she’s basically family_.

Yeah. That was it.

She shook her head. “I’m being silly. Go back to the ball, don’t stay here with me – I’m fine, honest.” A few more tears seeped down her face as she thinly tried to convince him to go.

“Nah, it’s almost finished now.” No chance he was leaving her crying by herself on Christmas.

 _What would Mum do_? He thought, still unsure how to stop her crying.

He had a sudden stroke of genius.

“Right, come on.” He got to his feet and offered her his hands to pull her up. She looked at him incredulously.

“I’m not going back in there! Not like this!” She sounded so indignant.

George just smiled and didn’t lower his hands. “Just trust me. Come on.”

Hermione looked at him disbelievingly but he didn’t look away. When it was clear he wasn’t giving up, she took his hands, sighed and slowly stood up. Tissues upon tissues fell from her lap.

“Oops.” She said weakly, and cleared them away with her wand.

“Now,” George said, “let’s clean you up a bit.” Panic flashed across her face as he brought his wand to her face.

He chuckled. “Trust me, Granger.” All he did was a simple _scourgify_ to clean up the black streaks of makeup around her eyes, and red smear around her mouth.

“Do I still have my eyebrows?” She muttered, not believing him.

George grinned. “Yes, Granger, you still have eyebrows.” He began walking down the flight of stairs and called up to her. “But, now they’re blue!”

She yelped and he saw her quickly check her reflection in a tiny compact mirror. She grumbled under her breath as she caught up with him, but he was pleased to see she didn’t look so forlorn anymore.

“Where are we going? The dungeons?” She asked as they kept walking down, past approaching Gryffindors on their way back to their rooms. A couple of older ones gave George funny looks as they passed. He ignored them.

“What do you take me for, a Slytherin? No, you muppet, I’ll show you.” They had now joined in to a stream of Hufflepuffs on the lower floor. Nearly there.

He gestured over to the next corridor as they reached the lowest floor. “Here.”

He stopped her in front of a large painting containing a bowl of fruit. Hermione raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. George rolled his eyes at her lack of faith.

“Would you trust me already? Close your eyes. This is a trade secret.”

She didn’t move.

“Close them!” George hesitated. “Please?”

She glowered at him, but did shut her eyes. “So help me Godric, if you’re about to cover me in Dungbombs I will _write to your mother_ , George Weasley.”

George laughed before tickling the pear and stepping through the frame.

He wasn’t gone long, just enough time to ask the good natured house elves for a pot of tea, crumpets, scones and some gingerbread men. Oh, and some mince pies. And whatever else they had leftover from the Christmas feast.

George staggered under the weight of the tray he was given, thanked them all, and stepped back into the corridor.

“A Christmas miracle! Hermione Granger actually listened to me.”

She tutted, arms folded across her middle but with her eyes still firmly shut.

Oh, she was cold. _Idiot_ , he thought, _it’s freezing down here. Of course she’s bloody cold._

George set down the tray and shook off his long dress robe cloak. He draped it over her shoulders. Hermione tensed in surprise but then hugged it closer, pulling it tighter around her.

“Can I open my eyes now?” She asked, the faintest pulling of a smile on her lips.

George picked up the overflowing tray. “Sure.”

She stared with wide eyes at the mountain of treats before her. “Where on earth did you get that?”

He made an attempt to tap his nose, but his hands were too full to reach properly. “Top secret, I’m afraid. But, I thought you could do with a cup of tea.” Her eyes fell to the enormous teapot steaming gently next to two large blue mugs. He wasn’t a fool – he wasn’t going to mention the house elves, he’d seen the knobbly hats and scarves left in Gryffindor common room. She would hardly approve.

Hermione looked up at him and he felt his throat close. She looked on the verge of tears again.

“Thank you.” She blinked rapidly and wiped her eyes on the collar of his cloak. George felt his grin slip. He hadn’t meant to make her cry again.

“Err, shall we sit over there?” He gestured to the far steps, hidden from the busy corridors behind them. They shouldn’t be interrupted by nosy Hufflepuffs this far away from the common room.

He sat down, and before he had the chance to do it himself, Hermione had conjured a short brown table in front of them. The perfect height for the tray of food to be reached from the stone steps.

“Show off.” He muttered. She ignored him.

George poured out the tea, offering her a cup, and helped himself to a mince pie and leftover turkey sandwich. He checked his pocket watch – it was almost midnight. Christmas Day was nearly over.

Hermione nibbled on a slice of toast thoughtfully.

“Who did you go to the ball with?” she asked.

George swallowed his mouthful of tea. “Katie Bell.”

Hermione nodded slowly, as if processing the information.

“I didn’t know you two were an item.”

George lowered his mug. “We’re not. She’s just a friend. Why do you ask?”

She picked up a mince pie and picked at the pastry star on the top of it. “Just curious. Sounds like it _is_ possible to go out with a friend and not upset anyone.” Her tone was bitter.

He really didn’t know what to say to that.

“Hermione,” He said slowly, not wanting to upset her. Or overstep a boundary. “If Ron’s being a dick, you know that me and Fred can put itching powder in his pants, right?”

She beamed at him, and George forgot how to breathe.

“I’ll let you know if that’s necessary.” She finished her cup of tea and poured herself another one. She seemed happier already. She didn’t bring up Ron’s name again, so neither did he.

They sat huddled on the staircase for the best part of an hour, just chatting. He asked her about her muggle parents, what ‘dentistree’ was, what it had been like at a muggle school. The more they talked, the more she cheered up. By the time the teapot was empty he had completely sobered up, and had almost forgotten about the ball entirely. This part of the evening had been much better, in some ways.

Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, and George froze.

“Thank you for all this, George.” She whispered. His hands were oddly clammy.

“Anytime.” He really didn’t want to move. But it was way past curfew, and she wouldn’t thank him if they got landed in detention. Or caught by Snape. “We should go.”

She let out a whine, “but I’m so comfy!” She shuffled closer. George could feel the heat from her arms almost brushing his.

“Hermione. We really need to get back.” He gently pushed her off. _Dammit_.

George picked up the tray (barely a dent had been made into the piles of food) and dropped it by the painting of fruit. Hermione waved the table away and stood up, drowsy.

It was really late now, and there was a very strong chance that they could be caught. Time for an old trick, then.

“Follow me.” He said, heading up the stairs – but away from the direction of Gryffindor common room.

“George! It’s the wrong way!” She whispered after him, struggling to keep up. He put a finger to his lips.

They snuck up the stairs and made it to the third floor without being spotted. Miraculously, they didn’t run into Peeves either. Just off the east side of the third corridor was a statue. George grabbed Hermione’s arm and pulled her into the cloister behind him. He tapped the stone head with his wand, and the front half of it pulled away, revealing a passageway.

Hermione looked at him in surprise. He grinned, and tugged her inside after him. The entry closed behind them, leaving them in darkness.

“Where does this lead?” She breathed. He was acutely aware of how close they were standing. He cast a quiet _lumos_ and lit up the passageway, leading to the left.

“Should bring us out right at the base of Gryffindor tower.” Hermione regarded him.

“You’re quite the surprise, Weasley.” She said. His heart beat erratically for a second or two.

The path was flat, but winding as it twisted and turned in a steady incline. It was a short walk, and the pair soon reached a flat blockage in front of them. George tapped it twice with his wand.

He peered around the corner slowly, but they were in luck. No teachers or ghosts in sight. He loved the adrenaline rush of a late night escapade. And he hadn’t even broken that many school rules this time!

They climbed out of the twin statue and sprinted up the final staircase towards the Fat Lady.

“You’re late,” the portrait frowned at them. “Curfew ended at midnight.”

George clutched his side, ignoring her. “Tentacula Tango.” A weird password, but it worked. The portrait swung open, much to the annoyance of the Fat Lady, revealing an empty common room.

Hermione stepped inside first.

“Oh,” she said, “I almost forgot.” She unhooked the clasp at her throat and handed back his cloak.

“Thanks.” He folded it in his arms.

“No, thank you for tonight, George. You made it so much better.” She blushed and gave him a quick hug. He put his hands lightly on her waist. Was that the right thing to do? He’d completely blanked on where to put them. It didn’t matter; she pulled away before his brain caught up.

“Merry Christmas, and thanks for the tea.” She smiled at him. He couldn’t help smiling back. Merlin, she had nice eyes. She disappeared up the girl’s staircase with a backwards glance.

“Merry Christmas, Granger!” He called after her.

He ran a hand through his hair, forgetting how short it was. The fire in the hearth was spluttering its final embers. Time for bed.

Oh, thank Godric, he climbed the winding stairs and there was no sock on his dormitory door. Just the sound of four sleeping blokes. Oh, and maybe one extra person – George noted the red dress crumpled at the base of Fred’s bed. He could make out the shape of Fred holding Angelina close to his chest through the drapes. He made a note to tease Angelina relentlessly about how she talked in her sleep.

George collapsed on his four poster bed, fully clothed. Kicking off his shoes, he realised he still held the dress robe cloak in his hands. It smelt faintly of cinnamon. He fell asleep smiling.


	7. Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Here, have a ridiculously long update. I lost myself in this one!

**The Burrow, May 17 1998**

George couldn’t take his eyes off her.

In his defence, Hermione was wearing that soft blue off-the-shoulder blouse and had her hair loose, with a few strands pinned behind her ears. He loved that top. Even from a distance.

He heard a gentle cough behind him, and he turned to catch Fred wiggling his eyebrows at him.  
“Are we concentrating, Georgie?” He goaded, flicking his gaze towards the window and the girl with her books under the great oak tree.

George flipped him off, returning his attention to the endless list of owl-orders for the shop put between them at the kitchen table. Seriously, when did they get so popular? He had no idea that people would be in such demand of fireworks after a war. 

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon. As promised, the twins were back for a family meal in the evening. Their dad was enjoying a rare day off and was out setting the table early, the elongated bench placed in the garden shade. It was a hot day, unusual for England in the Spring. But it gave the family a chance to eat outside rather than all crammed around the Burrow’s small dining table.

It was the first time Fred and George had been home since moving back into the flat. They’d spent the past week cleaning it from top to bottom and sorting through all the old stock in the shop. George had a hunch that Fred was trying to prove some kind of point; that he could do everything by himself and didn’t need any help. He had been keeping a close eye on his twin (not just to appease their mother) but Fred had been slowly working his way back up to full health. He could go the full working day without looking tired or needing a break longer than twenty minutes for lunch.

Bill and Fleur would be back from their brief trip to see her parents in France, and Ginny had invited her friends Neville, Luna and Hannah Abbott to join them. It would be an almost full house later. A united front, he realised with a jolt, as both the funerals for the fighters at Hogwarts and the first Death Eater trials at the Ministry were due to start tomorrow.

It was Lavender Brown’s funeral in the morning.

Fred threw down his quill and stretched, snapping George out of his morbid thoughts. “I’m starving. It must be time for a break by now, we’ve been at this for hours.”

“Fancy a game of quidditch?” George offered. He was keen to get outside too. Keen to move, run, celebrate being _alive_.

“Hell yeah!”

They abandoned the table and Fred stuck his head up the stairs.

“RON! HARRY! PERCE! GINNY!” He bellowed. There was a distant sound of footfall and then-

 _Crack_. Ron and Harry apparated into the sitting room.

“What the bloody hell are you shouting for?” Ron demanded, twisting his finger in his ear like he needed to clear it of wax.

Before George could answer, there came a loud “WHADDYOUWANT?” from an upper floor.

“Her voice can really carry.” Fred muttered before calling up, “QUIDDITCH MATCH!”

A second _crack_ and Ginny joined them, pulling her hair into a high ponytail.

“No need to shout. I’m in.” She pecked Harry on the cheek. Ron pointedly looked away.

Fred was frowning. “That’s only five of us – unless one of you wants so sit out? No sign of Percy.”

“We could wait until after dinner. Bill could join in, that would make six?” Harry suggested but George shook his head.

“Nah, it’ll be too dark by then. We could ask...” He tapered off, nodding towards the front window where Hermione was still visible.

“Not likely.” Ron scoffed.

They were interrupted by Arthur whistling as he strolled back into the house, wiping his greasy hands on his work trousers. He stopped in the doorway, apparently not expecting to walk in from his ‘shed’ – _more like a shrine to muggle inventions_ \- right into a gathering of his children.

“Oh. Hi, kids.” He slowly pocketed a shiny object that looked a bit like a spoon, fork, pair of tweezers, nail file and a knife all in one. George made a mental note to ask Harry what he thought it was later.

“Hey, Dad. Fancy a quick game of quidditch?” Ginny asked. Arthur checked the family clock – their Mum’s hand still firmly on ‘visiting’, meaning she was still with Andromeda and Teddy.

“Well, I don’t see why no-“

He was cut off by the familiar silver streak of a ghostly animal apparition. A patronus – and a small one at that – a tabby cat. Fred looked to George and they shared a knowing look. That was McGonagall’s patronus. It spoke only to their Dad, who just nodded sagely.

George felt adrenaline course through his body as he prepared to grab Fred and apparate away. They were plunged back into a world of danger.

Weren’t they?

Their dad just looked mildly concerned. The silver light disappeared and he turned to them, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Minerva has asked if we could spare some of you for an emergency situation at Hogwarts. It’s not life threatening – “ he held up his hand before Harry could interject and ask who was hurt, “but it needs to be sorted today. It’s about the Room of Requirement. She said you can take the Floo directly to her office.”

Harry and Ron shared a guilty look.

“I think I’ll sit this one out, and keep Molly sane when she gets back.” Arthur sighed, sinking into a nearby chair. His dreams of a peaceful afternoon shattered.

“We’ll go.” Ron said, pointing at himself and Harry.

“And Hermione. She’ll want to come.” Harry said.

Arthur nodded. “I think either Fred or George should go with you, just to be on the safe side.” Ginny bristled and opened her mouth to speak but he gave her a piercing look that silenced her unspoken argument. She sulked instead, and stormed back up the stairs.

“I never get better at handling her.” George watched his dad put his head in his hands and age about twenty years in the space of ten seconds. Ron just mouthed the word ‘girls’ over at Fred. He shrugged.

“I’ll stay and help Mum when she gets back.” Fred offered. George glanced at his twin suspiciously.

“You feeling ok, Freddie?” The wave of panic had left him slightly weak at the knees. Maybe Fred felt the same.

Fred patted him on the shoulder. “Fit as a fiddle. Just can’t be arsed to go into school. I’ll keep going at the owl-order backlog while you’re gone.” Fred refused to look George in the eyes and turned to fill the kettle. Their dad gave him a grateful thumbs up.

It was unlike Fred to turn down an adventure. _Especially in favour of paperwork._

Ron was already streaking out the house, calling to Hermione. They both appeared back in the kitchen. Ron looked eager, Hermione looked confused.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, looking at each of them for an explanation. A small book was tucked under her arm.

“We’re needed at Hogwarts. Now.” Harry said. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder. “Hogwarts School, Headmistress’ office!” The green flame engulfed him.

“Is everyone ok?” Hermione demanded, eyes resting on George. He nodded.

“McGonagall needs help with the Room of Requirement. We’re the volunteers.”

Hermione’s lips parted into an ‘O’ shape, and he could practically hear the cogs of her brain whirring.

“The _Fiendfyre_...” she whispered, a crease in her brow formed as she frowned. “Hold on, I just need to grab something.” She darted up the stairs.

Ron didn’t wait, and stepped into the fireplace. He called out “Hogwarts, Headmistress’ office.”

Hermione ran back down the stairs clutching two thick books – one of which George recognised as ‘ _Hogwarts, A History._ ’

 _You and that bloody book_ , he thought. He didn’t dare risk saying it out loud.

She followed Ron into the fire and twisted away into the green. George waved goodbye to his twin and was just seconds behind her.

He tumbled out clumsily onto the tartan rug, nearly knocking Ron down as he rolled across the floor.

“Ever the troublemaker, Mr Weasley.” Professor McGonagall regarded him through her wire glasses and pursed her lips. Whether it was in disapproval or stopping a smile, he couldn’t say.

“Sorry, Professor. Not all of us can land on our feet.” She ignored the jibe about her form of animagus and addressed the four of them.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice. I really wouldn’t have interrupted your time off if I didn’t think it critical that you were here. Potter,” she turned her steely gaze to Harry who stood taller as she addressed him, “the night you defeated Lord Voldemort, the Room of Requirement was subjected to some serious damage. Is that correct?”

Harry nodded. “Crabbe lost control of the Fiendfyre curse, it nearly killed all of us. It _did_ kill him – we were lucky to make it out alive. It’s the fire that destroyed Ravenclaw’s diadem. Another horcrux.”

McGonagall put her fingers together in a steeple. “Yes, I thought as much. Unfortunately the Room of Requirement has not opened for anyone who has gone looking for it since. I’ve had volunteers patrolling along the seventh corridor for hours, but the room refuses to appear. I’m afraid I cannot get Hogwarts fit to open in September if I leave an area of the castle that has been so severely affected by dark magic. Who knows what might happen.” She surveyed them over the rim of her spectacles.

“Which is why you need our help.” Hermione said, leaning backwards against the desk and already leafing through the two books resting in her lap. She pulled out a small beaded bag and somehow managed to fit them into it. She returned the bag to her pocket.

“Correct, Miss Granger. You three know more about what happened that night. And I believe the room will show itself to Mr Potter.” She paused, then looked at George. “And I suppose you’re here to cause some more mayhem?”

George grinned. “Always, Professor. But only when it’s safe.”

McGonagall really did smile at him for that. “Thank you, Mr Weasley.” She clapped her hands together. “I shall accompany you, but remain outside the room. Let’s begin.”

She escorted the group up the staircases, passing collapsed walls and piles of brick and broken glass. There was still so much to repair, Hogwarts was still wounded. The higher they went, the less damage there seemed to be. The fight had been mainly on the lower floors and outside. That was something, at least.

The seventh floor looked mostly untouched. George found himself staring at the familiar tapestry opposite a blank wall. Visions of DA meetings, practicing jinxes and trying to conjure a patronus swam around him. Echoes of laughter, whooping and cheering gave way to screaming and terror. The visions changed. He blinked them away.

Harry broke apart from the group and began pacing back and forth with his eyes squeezed shut. He made three turns, stopped, and looked at the wall.

Nothing happened. He cursed softly.

Ron joined him, both boys pacing three lengths of the corridor muttering to themselves. On the third attempt, George closed his eyes and tried as well. He stayed still.

_I need the room where things can be hidden. Where nobody else can find it. I need the room where things can be hidden. Where nobody else can find it..._

Two things happened suddenly. A sharp intake of breath followed by a deep, resonant splintering sound. George opened his eyes to see the outline of a doorway appearing on the wall.

“Well done, all of you. Keep your wands out at all times.” McGonagall stepped forward and placed her palm on the doorway. It solidified into a thick black door at her touch, and formed with a _clunk_ into place. “I will wait for you here. If you have not returned in one hour, I will send a patronus to find you.”

She stepped back from the door. “Remember, this is just to identify the problem and neutralise any lingering magic. This is not for you to fix alone. Do not take any risks.” She looked pointedly at Harry, who kept his gaze steady on the door.

“Fat chance.” George muttered under his breath.

Harry tentatively pushed open the door. It resisted, needing all four of them to heave it open. There was just enough space for them to slip in one by one, with George last.

The door swung shut with a decisive _thump_ behind him. _Probably should have propped that open_.

He turned his attention to the space before him.

The room was unrecognisable under a thick blanket of ash. Towers of twisted and warped remainders of furniture and objects welded together. Nothing was left, even the walls and ceiling were blackened and charred. The floor was crunchy underfoot, the air heavy with the smell of carbon. An eerie silence fell on the group.

“Do we split up?” Ron asked, breaking the quiet.

Harry looked uncomfortable at that idea. “Let’s stick together for now. We don’t know what we’re up against.”

“You make it sound like something’s about to burst out and try to eat you.” George half joked.

“It normally bloody does.” Ron grumbled. They stayed close together.

With wands drawn, the four of them went deeper and deeper into the wreckage of the room. Hermione had the sense to mark a glowing X on the spot where the door appeared and left a trail of vibrant red string, emitted from her wand.

“Like Hansel and Gretel.” She said. George – and from the look on his face, Ron too – had absolutely no idea what she meant by that. But it was definitely a good idea.

They heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Minutes stretched on as they kept walking, and the extent of devastation reached all the way through the room. Nothing had escaped the blaze. George didn’t want to think about how close the other three had come to being trapped in this place as it burned. He risked a look at Hermione to his left. Her mouth was set in a grim line of determination. If she was scared, she didn’t show it.

“Stop.” Harry hissed after a while and halted, with one arm flung out to stop Ron from walking straight into him. “Did you hear that?” He whispered.

George tensed, his heartrate spiking. He held his breath. Nothing happened.

Suddenly, there was an ear splitting roar, shattering the silence as it echoed around the room and deafened him. The floor shook, the nearby piles of debris teetering dangerously as George and the group were knocked off their feet. What he could only describe as a claw of white hot fire appeared from nowhere, grasping at the top of the nearest mountain of burnt clutter. A monstrous hippogriff shaped flame towered over them and shrieked ferociously again.

“RUN!” Harry bellowed, grabbing Ron by the back of his shirt and he launched forwards towards a clearing at the end of the row. George scrambled upright, but Hermione was still on the ground.

“I dropped my wand!” She cried, frantically feeling around as the room shook. The fire-hippogriff beat its wings and sent showers of flame raining down on them.

“ _Aguamenti orbito_!” George drew a sphere over his head, producing a barrier of water between the two of them and the falling fire. “ _Accio wand_!” He shouted, and grabbed wildly at Hermione’s wand as it soared towards him. He threw it to her.

“Go! GO!” Ron shouted, and George could see that he and Harry were the other side of the barrier, right next to a tottering mess of objects that looked like it would –

Fall.

The beating of the hippogriff’s wings sent the towers toppling towards Hermione and George with a roar.

“Come on!” George grabbed Hermione’s hand and pulled her – not a second too late – sprinting to the opposite end of the stacks. With a deafening crash, the Hippogriff sent more mountains of hot objects after them, narrowly missing where they had just been crouched. George aimed curse after curse behind him, Hermione deflecting what fire she could. They were completely separated from the other two, the trail of string long gone from sight but George just kept running blindly. His blood pounded in his ears as the creature thundered around them.

“It’s not following us anymore!” Hermione called out, and he chanced another look over his shoulder. He saw a lick of fire disappear round the twist of objects in the distance and risked stopping. George sucked in air through his aching lungs, a stitch forming under his ribs.

“It’s going after Ron and Harry.” He wheezed.

“We have to stop it!” She cried, pulling him in the direction the hippogriff had taken.

“How the hell do we do that? That shit is cursed fire! No water spells will work on it!”

He felt utterly useless. What the fuck were they supposed to do? They were lost in the middle of a never-ending room of junk with a wild fire demon after them. They didn’t cover this in NEWTs.

Hermione fumbled with her beaded bag, plunged her arm in up to her elbow and pulled out the book from earlier. He noted her shaking fingers, but she found the page she was looking for.

“Fiendfyre, fiendfyre... where did I see it...here – shit, ok,” she placed her trembling finger on the line of text, “once cast, fiendfyre can only be completely stopped by the wand of the person who summoned it. It lists a spell and a motion you have to do.” She looked up. “It’s still here because Crabbe never called it off.” She dropped the book back into the bag.

“Well that’s useless, isn’t it? If Crabbe died in here then his wand will have burnt to a crisp!” George slunk down against the wall. The sounds of the roaring hippogriff fire were far away. He could only hope that Harry and Ron had it under control. He wouldn’t let himself think of the alternative.

“Except- except, you didn’t specify _my_ wand when you said ‘accio’.”

George looked at her.

“What?”

“You just said ‘accio wand’, George, you didn’t say ‘accio Hermione’s wand’.” Hermione had a gleam in her eye as she lifted up the gnarly wand between her fingers. “This isn’t my wand. I knew it felt wrong!”

George stared at it. “So that’s -?”

“Crabbe’s wand? I hope so. One way to check.”

She waved it and whispered “ _Priori Incantato_.” A burst of roaring flames ejected from the end of it – George backed off hurriedly. “ _Deletrius_!” Hermione shouted and the fire disappeared from sight.

She wiped the soot off her brow with the back of her arm. “Yup, it’s his wand.”

George had a second’s warning as the hair on his arms stood up at the sudden increase of temperature, and pushed Hermione out of the way as a blast of raging fire was aimed right at them. Distracted, they hadn’t noticed the rumbling of the floor as the hippogriff cantered towards them, breathing scores of hot flame.

“Now, Hermione!” George shouted as he stumbled upright. His arm caught on the corner of a fractured table and he felt the point splinter and dig into his skin with a stab of pain. He ignored it, and drew another barrier of protective water around them. _It wouldn’t be enough_.

She stepped forwards, facing the creature of fire as it leered towards them, clawing wildly. Her hair whipped around her face as she made swift fluid movements in the air around them.

“ _Fiendra Retracto, Daemonium Obsoleta_!” She screamed, holding the wand with two hands above her head.

The hippogriff shrieked and roared as the flames began circling faster and faster, forming a tornado of scorching heat. Hermione stood firm as the formation of flame grew closer until it was pulled into the tip of the wand, sucked in like a vortex. Hermione screamed, the fire burned brighter but gradually disappeared, the creature howling in fury and despair until its claws vanished from sight, twisting relentlessly into the wand. The heat was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

Hermione dropped Crabbe’s wand and it fell with a clatter to the ground. Her shoulders were heaving.

Silence fell across the Room of Requirement again.

“You did it.” George sunk to his knees, weak with relief.

“Yeah,” Hermione panted, hands on her thighs and bent over. “I did.”

George chuckled weakly. “I can’t even think of a joke right now. That was _awesome_.” He looked at her. “You’re amazing.”

Hermione giggled, quietly at first but it eventually gave way to full peals of laughter. George thought she was quite mad. And wonderful.

“Hermione?” “GEORGE!” Ron and Harry called out for them across the chaos of the room. George pushed himself to his feet and shot a red flare into the air from his wand. The sparks shot up into the sky and exploded high above them.

“Over here!” Hermione called out. She picked up Crabbe’s wand from the ground, holding it at one end between pinched fingers like she was afraid it could go off again. It had a crack running all the way down to its core, and it was smoking.

“We need to find your wand.” George remembered.

“Try ‘accio’ again. But be more specific this time.” She grinned at him. He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, your _Highness_.” He raised his wand again. “ _Accio Hermione Jean Granger’s wand_.”

With a whoosh, Hermione’s wand soared over the top of the ash covered mountain. She grabbed it, turning it over in her hands.

“Much better.” She pocketed it.

“Hey! There you are.” Harry rounded the corner towards them, closely followed by Ron. Hermione hugged them both tightly. George felt awkwardly apart from the little golden trio, until Ron pulled him into a bone-crushing bear hug.

“What the hell happened to you? Where did it go?” Harry asked. Neither he nor Ron looked injured apart from scorch marks and a few streaks of soot.

“Hermione. She caught it. The fire’s gone for good.” George explained. Ron looked at her, impressed.

“Caught it? How?”

She held up Crabbe’s destroyed wand. “It had to be contained by the wand that cast it. George summoned Crabbe’s wand and I found the incantation to trap it back where it came from.” George frowned. That wasn’t exactly correct – he had _accidentally_ summoned the wand. He didn’t correct her, though.

“Genius.” Ron exhaled, inspecting the wand with interest. “I thought we were goners.”

“Are you both ok? What happened to you?” Hermione asked.

Harry sighed. “We flung everything we had at it, but nothing worked. The same as last time, except no brooms to jump on.”

Ron conjured a glass of water and drank from it greedily, the excess trickling down his chin.

“How do we get back to the door?” Harry asked, looking around.

Hermione muttered a spell under her breath and the trail of string levitated high in the air, mapping out a glowing exit route to the west that lead them through the wreckage.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Harry asked her, a mixture of sarcasm and appreciation. She linked her arm through his and began walking over to the beginning of the string, where she had dropped her wand.

They made it back to the doorway unscathed. The dark door reappeared slowly, but creaked open as they drew nearer, revealing Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey on the other side.

“Oh thank the founders, there you are!” McGonagall appraised them as they stepped through. George thought fresh air had never tasted so good. The nurse seized on him the second he was clear of the door.

“That’s one injury, Minerva, any others?”

Hermione looked aghast. “You didn’t say you were hurt, George!” The cut on his arm was deeper than he’d first thought. Blood had seeped through his shirt and was already starting to congeal. He pressed it gingerly, hissing in pain at the feel of multiple chunky splinters embedded in his arm. He made a noncommittal sound. It wasn’t that bad.

“We’re all fine, Professor, no more injuries.” Harry took off his glasses and wiped them on his t-shirt.

“What on earth happened, Potter?” McGonagall peered through the open door into the Room of Requirement.

“Hermione caught and removed the last of the Fiendfyre. We got separated, but she did it. No more dark magic in there.”

“Not much of anything left in there.” George muttered, wincing as Madame Pomfrey rolled up his sleeve and wiped the gash with a green flannel.

“Yes, I’ll have to see what can be done about restoring it,” McGonagall said, closing the door. “But that is a problem for another day. All of you should return home. I can’t thank you enough for your help.” Both Harry and Hermione made sounds like they wanted to stay longer, but these were dismissed with just one look from the Headmistress.

She escorted them back down the staircase in the direction of her office. The nurse still had a vice-like grip on George’s wrist, dabbing at the cut with a blue tincture. Hermione stayed close to him on his other side, her fingers brushing his on more than one occasion. She looked tired and battered but held her head high. He reached to interlock his fingers through his but pulled back at the last second. George thought he heard a snap from somewhere behind them, but when he twisted round to look there was nothing there. Just another empty stairwell

“I need to remove the splinters in your arm before it gets infected, Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey said as they approached the office, “stay behind, please.” George knew better than to argue, so he reluctantly let Madame Pomfrey pick out every piece of wood from his arm as Harry, Ron and Hermione spoke to McGonagall and disappeared into the fireplace.

“Thank you for today, Mr Weasley.” The Headmistress said, looking over plans of the building on her desk. “You are a credit to this institution, when you are not encouraging my students to defy the rules.” She had a twinkle in her eye.

“Happy to help, Professor. You’ll be pleased to hear that we’re considering buying Zonko’s old plot and branching out the company into Hogsmeade, then?”

McGonagall’s eye twitched.

“Right, all done.” Madame Pomfrey dropped the last of the splinters into a metal dish and removed the contents with her wand. She applied a white paste to the wound and George’s arm went completely numb. She then dripped on some _essence of dittany_ , and he saw the cut close up completely.

He shook his arm out, attempting to feel his fingertips.

“You’ll be fine by tomorrow. Don’t use that arm too much, and any persistent problems come straight back to me – don’t bother with St Mungos.” The nurse wrinkled her nose up at the name of the hospital.

“Thank you. I’ll be back soon, Professor.” George flashed the tired looking Headmistress a grin before grabbing a handful of Floo powder and calling out “The Burrow!”

“Oh, _good_. I thought we’d nearly run out of Weasleys around here.” He thought she said quietly, but he couldn’t be sure as he was yanked by the stomach into darkness and his view disappeared.

***

“Are you sure your arm’s ok now, Georgie? Do you need me to take a look?”

“Mum, I swear it doesn’t hurt. Pomfrey fixed me up, don’t fret.” George ducked and planted a kiss on his mum’s head as he stepped behind her chair and headed inside.

“Tell me again about how you trapped it, Hermione? That’s some serious curse work.” He heard Bill ask across the table.

George grabbed two bottles of butterbeer and a bowl of crisps from the kitchen, walked back out and set them down in the middle of the group. Andromeda had unexpectedly joined them, and she sat with Teddy on her lap next to Harry, who seemed fascinated with his godfather. Teddy’s hair kept swapping from jet black to light pink.

Dusk settled around the busy table, and George used his good arm to poke his wand in the direction of the eight empty bottles on the table, creating little fires inside. They hovered and spread out in the air, lighting up the group still talking and drinking into the evening. Everyone too full to move after another incredible Mrs Weasley special.

“It was nothing, really. I just knew I’d read something about Fiendfyre recently.” Hermione batted the compliment away, blushing.

“She was amazing,” Harry ignored her, “she knew she had to use Crabbe’s wand to actually get rid of it properly this time. We wouldn’t be sitting here now without her.” Ginny put her arms around Hermione and hugged her tightly.

“Huh – how did you know it was Fiendfyre before you got there, though?” Bill asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry looked down at his glass, Hermione and Ron suddenly very interested in the floating jar of lights behind them. George had a sneaky feeling the three of them hadn’t mentioned their last encounter with the fire to his parents.

“Harry.” Mrs Weasley called in a dangerously stern tone, “what did you three _do_?”

The trio launched into justified explanations at the same time.

“It wasn’t us! It was-“

“Crabbe and Malfoy were waiting for us, we didn’t know-“

“We got away! Ron spotted the brooms and-“

“He kicked the diadem back into the fire, honestly, we didn’t know what it would do-“

Fred, Neville and Ginny watched gleefully as Mrs Weasley’s eyes narrowed.

“I will be having words with _Minerva_ about what she drafts in barely qualified adults to handle. And as for you three,” Molly looked almost lost for words, “what on earth were you thinking?”

Harry took Teddy into his arms. “We didn’t have a choice the first time, Mrs Weasley. It was an accident but we needed that fire to destroy the diadem. It was just a case of right place at the right time.”

Arthur drained his glass and put it down onto the table. “What we’re asking, is why was it necessary. What did you risk your lives for? What did you hope to achieve?”

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione before answering. The atmosphere had changed around the table, no longer jovial and relaxed. Neville was leaning forward on his elbows, clearly engrossed in the conversation. Ginny, Hannah and Luna sat quietly, also listening intently. Harry took a deep breath before he spoke.

“What we were doing, since the wedding, was work Dumbledore left to me. In order to kill Voldemort, first he needed to be weakened.” He spoke slowly, addressing Teddy. Not Molly and Arthur. It was evident this was news to everyone at the table, with the exceptions of Ron and Hermione. This was important.

“We knew that Voldemort hid pieces of his soul in six objects – powerful objects – and hid them, to keep them safe. He couldn’t fully die while they were left alone. So, we went after them. We only had a vague idea of what we were looking for. It was hard, and we spent months without a clear idea of what to do. We broke into the Ministry to get one, Gringotts for another... and one was in Hogwarts.”

“The diadem.” Luna chirped. Harry nodded.

“Another powerful relic with ties to Hogwarts - the only place Tom Riddle ever loved. These objects, seven horcruxes, could only be destroyed in certain ways with ridiculously dangerous magic. Ginny’s diary in her first year belonged to Riddle. I stabbed it with a basilisk fang, and the venom destroyed it. That’s the kind of power we’re talking about. When Crabbe lost control of the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement, it was an opportunity to destroy the diadem that we couldn’t pass on. That’s what we risked our lives for.”

Nobody spoke. Until –

“The snake.” Said Neville.

“Yes. The penultimate horcrux.” Hermione whispered from opposite George.

“You told me it was important. You didn’t say how important.” Neville spoke in a low voice, anguish written across his face.

“You killed it with the sword. Godric Gryffindor’s sword. You destroyed a horcrux, mate. You helped kill him,” said Ron.

“You said six objects, Harry, but seven horcruxes. How does that work?” It was Bill who asked the most difficult question. Harry returned Teddy to Andromeda’s lap, looking up at George’s parents.

“When Voldemort killed my parents and tried to kill me, the killing curse rebounded and the last piece of his soul latched on to me. I was the last horcrux, one he never meant to make.” George felt a chill go down his spine. Fleur covered her mouth with her hand, staring with horror at Harry.

“It’s how you could see into his mind. And speak to snakes.” Hermione breathed. Harry nodded. George was unsurprised that she caught up so quickly. That, or she already worked it out.

“It’s how you saw the snake attack Dad that time.” Fred said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes” Harry spoke softly, Ron staring at his best friend so intensely that George had to look away. “Dumbledore and Snape knew that he had to try and kill me when he was at his weakest. The prophecy was right. The curse rebounded again, but this time it destroyed the last piece of his soul _in_ me. It’s how I could finally kill him for good, just by deflecting his spell. The Elder Wand couldn’t kill its true master.”

Molly sniffed, a tear falling down her face. The silence was so thick that George could have cut it with a knife.

“You knew you might die. When you went to him in the forest.” Hermione said. Again, it was a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah. I could have. But Dumbledore was right. And look where it got us.” Harry gestured to the table surrounded by family and friends. George had no doubt whatsoever that Harry was the bravest man he had ever met.

“Oh, Harry!” Molly shattered the reverent silence, hurrying over and crushing Harry in a tight hug. The spell was broken, and George shook his head to clear his mind. The table split off into quiet conversations between smaller pairings. Fred wore a similar expression to his father. One of shock, awe and pain.

Harry hugged Mrs Weasley back fiercely. She broke apart tearfully and turned to pull both Ron and Hermione from their seats into equally suffocating hugs. George took a mouthful of butterbeer and relaxed back into his chair. The crickets in the fields behind them were in full chorus now the sun had long since disappeared. Night fell quickly and chased away the warmth of the day.

Arthur stood up and walked to the back of the house around the corner, coming back with dozens of small logs in his arms. “I thought we could have a fire, the muggle way.” For once, Molly didn’t even argue. Hermione busied herself with helping him light the logs with handfuls of kindling, ever patient with his terrible attempts to start a fire without magic. Finally they succeeded, and warmth flooded back into George’s body. He didn’t think he’d ever want to be so close to a fire again, after the day he’d had. But there was still something reassuring and calming about the steady flicker of a contained campfire.

Ginny led her friends down onto the grass, close to the flame. Hannah rested her head against Neville’s shoulder, lost in conversation with Luna. George’s dad and Percy paired off and went back inside, claiming they had work in the morning and needed an early night. Bill and Fleur said their goodbyes and apparated home not long after that, closely followed by Andromeda and Teddy. Harry made a fuss of saying goodbye to Teddy, promising to see him soon. Dinner was distinctly over.

“So was the resurrection stone a horcrux?”

George jumped, not realising Fred was still next to him. Fred was looking between Harry, Ron and Hermione.

“No,” Harry answered. “It was something else.”

“What?” Fred asked pointedly.

Hermione bit her lip, eyes darting between Fred and Harry.

“A Deathly Hallow.” Harry said.

“That’s what brought Fred back.” George said.

“Yes, it was. There are two others. A cloak of invisibility, and the Elder Wand.” Harry ran a hand through his long hair. Was it George’s imagination, or did he look significantly older? Like the troubles of the world still rested firmly on his back.

“But they’re from children’s stories! Like _Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump!_ ” Fred sounded completely disbelieving.

“They’re real. You’ve seen my cloak.”

George’s mouth fell open. “That’s one of the Hallows? Merlin...”

“What happened to the stone, Harry?” Fred asked, twisting his empty glass between his fingers. George knew this was a sign his twin was nervous.

“I dumped it in the Forbidden Forest. And I snapped the Elder Wand in two and threw the halves off the bridge.” Harry folded his arms, shooting sideways glances at his best friends.

Ron looked visibly pained at that last part. Hermione twisted a curl around her thumb as she looked intently between the twins and Harry. The reflection of the fire danced in her pupils.

“So it’s nothing to do with Voldemort. It was never connected to his soul?” Fred’s hand tightened around the base of his glass as he asked the question.

And suddenly it clicked. _So that’s what he’s really worried about._

Ron frowned at George across the table, giving him a look that clearly said ‘what the hell is he talking about?’ But George knew. It was all falling into place. Fred’s brazen optimism was a show. He’d been waiting to hear it from Harry himself. Because there was a chance, a slim one but still a chance, that everything could still go wrong.

Harry looked long and hard at Fred, pity and agony flashing across his face. Hermione put a hand on Harry’s arm, squeezing it in support.

“No. Voldemort wanted the Hallows for their power. They were never horcruxes; the stone never connected with him like that. I think you’re safe.”

Fred exhaled shakily. George kicked himself for not asking Harry about this sooner.

“Wicked.”

Amazingly, Fred was already smirking, apparently unfazed. George shot a grateful smile at Harry. His gaze slipped to Hermione, who looked back at him with a mix of relief and exhaustion.

“Now, if you ugly lot don’t mind, I’m gonna go draft a letter to Angelina.” Fred pushed away from the table and got up, collecting some of the empty glasses in front of them. George was thrown by the shift in dynamics – going from urgent and important to trivial within seconds. His twin always had been the turbulent one. “Night, guys.” Fred ambled towards the kitchen.

But George saw through his facade, and realised this was the first time in weeks that Fred had actually even mentioned Angelina. Maybe this was a sign that Fred was allowing himself to prepare for a future. A full, good life. This was a huge step in that direction.

Harry, Ron, George and Hermione abandoned the table and joined the group on the grass. Ron pulled a couple of chairs over and Harry poured out more butterbeer. The evening air was sweet and crisp, and George felt completely at home. In the most pathetic display of Gryffindor bravery, he even brushed shoulders with the girl next to him, subtly putting his weight onto his arms as he leant back on the ground. They knocked shoulders.

“You called me amazing, earlier.” Hermione mumbled quietly, just loud enough for George to hear.

He twisted his neck to see her staring at the fire, twiddling her wand between her fingers to create multi-coloured embers shooting above the flames. Harry was laughing loudly at something Neville and Ginny were demonstrating, arms gesturing wildly. Ron was on his back, pointing at the stars with Luna moving his hands to pick out different constellations as Hannah spoke. It was unnervingly normal. Calm. Enjoyable.

George smoothed out a crease in his shirt. He’d changed out of his torn and bloodied one from earlier. “So I did. Letting it go to your head, Granger?”

She scowled at him but the effect was ruined by the tell-tale twitch of her lip. “I saved your life today, Weasley. Don’t knock it. Admit it – books are cool.”

George barked a laugh at that, drawing questioning looks from Ron and Neville. He waved them away. Hermione threw her hair back over her shoulder, smiling in victory. George felt his heart swell just looking at her, but swallowed the emotion, pushing it down. He made an effort to join in with the muddle of conversations around them, but never let his arm stray too far from Hermione’s. A constant brush of bare skin connecting them.

Soon the night drew to a close, the moon hanging high in the cloudless sky. The chatter and laughter died down and a thoughtful calm descended over the group as the fire dwindled to a dull glow amongst the charred wood. Ginny’s friends stayed the night in the crowded Burrow sitting room. Ready to face the new week and the challenges it presented as the funerals for the fallen fifty began. George tore himself away from the sleepy group and bid goodnight.

They would face it all together.


	8. Butterbeer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made up some names for students who died in the Battle of Hogwarts.

**The Burrow, May 19 1998**

“Could you hold Teddy for a second, dear?”

Mrs Weasley thrust the baby into Hermione’s arms on her way past the dining table. Hermione cradled Teddy’s head, shushing him and rocking him gently. She had no experience with babies, but thought that was what you were meant to do.

It was quiet in the house for a change. The second day of funerals had been worse than the first – today had been Remus and Tonks. There had been a small service in a dusty countryside church after the burying of the coffins. Andromeda had bluntly refused to lay her daughter and son-in-law to rest in the Black family plot. Not that Remus belonged there any less than Tonks – both completely outcast by the family. It wouldn’t have made any sense. In the end they were buried in adjacent plots in the graveyard of Tonks’ childhood church where the service had taken place.

Harry had been red eyed and silent. She and Ron stood with him at towards the back of the gathered family and friends as they said goodbye. There were fewer people at this funeral than Lavender’s. Harry insisted on attending every single service, with the unspoken burden of each death weighing on his mind. Hermione and Ron had tried to reason with him, to get through to him and ease the guilt but he wasn’t having any of it. It was just how Harry was. He’d gone for a long walk through the countryside with Ron as soon as they’d apparated back to the Burrow.

Teddy burbled, his tiny hands reaching out and pulling at a strand of Hermione’s hair.

“Ouch, naughty. Let go, please.” She teased it out of his grasp and tickled his cheeks. Teddy smiled a toothless, wide smile at her. She found herself smiling back.

Mrs Weasley bustled back into the room and scooped Teddy from her, patting her hand reassuringly.

“There’s some cold lemonade in the fridge if you want any, dear, and I’m making pie for dinner. Is leek and ham ok?” Molly asked, stroking Teddy’s mop of sandy blond hair off his forehead. It turned electric blue at her touch.

Hermione’s stomach twisted in guilt. “Yes, thank you Mrs Weasley. That sounds perfect.”

The older woman tutted. “Molly, dear. Call me Molly.”

“Oh. Thank you, Molly. And – and thank you again, for letting me stay. I’m sorry I’m such a bother...” Her gut twisted painfully as she tried not to think about her empty family home. A house that had been wiped clean of any memory of her. She had nowhere else to go, without a knut or sickle to her name. If it hadn’t been for the Weasleys, she’d be homeless. Nothing she could do would ever make it up to the family entirely.

“Don’t be silly! You’re always welcome here. All those empty bedrooms, such a waste of space otherwise.” Molly chuckled dryly. She’d finally convinced Hermione to take Charlie’s old room on the top floor. She was so grateful for the chance to expand and unpack in her own space, she didn’t even mind the assortment of dragon posters that occasionally scared her by roaring in the night.

Mrs Weasley took Teddy upstairs for his afternoon nap while Andromeda was still at the service. Harry and Ron still weren’t back from their walk yet, Ginny was practicing quidditch drills in the garden and Fred and George had apparated straight to the shop. They planned to reopen fully in Diagon Alley on the first day of June.

She hadn’t spoken to George much since the evening after the Fiendfyre incident. He always looked so guarded, so tired – Hermione desperately wanted to talk to him properly. To say she was confused by her friend was an understatement. Her head was a complete muddle of emotions and arguments that spilled out into her daydreams. She hoped nobody else had noticed.

She sighed, stretching her arms above her head. A movement on the table caught her eye, and she removed a scattering of documents to see a copy of yesterday’s _Daily Prophet._ The photograph was of the repairs at the school, the title blaring ‘HOGWARTS SCHOOL TO REOPEN IN SEPTEMBER AS PLANNED’. She brought it closer to her face, trying to make out the human shapes moving in the depth of the frame. Harry, perhaps? With his back to the camera? And there, that was definitely Neville.

 _His bruises are so clear, even just in a photo_. She thought sadly.

Hermione breezed through the article, the first copy of the _Prophet_ she’d read in weeks. Harry had all but banned them from the house he was so furious with the way the paper portrayed him as the lone hero. The article wasn’t that bad, mostly focusing on the truth for once.

The only worrying part came at the very bottom of the second page.

Another smaller photograph sat nestled amongst the text. Hermione recognised it from the two days ago, after the Fiendfyre debacle. It was of them all walking back to McGonagall’s office – her own hair was frizzed and there were scorch marks on her cheeks as she walked beside George. Harry was the main focus of the picture, with Ron and George mostly cut out. She read the passage twice over just to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood it.

“ _A source close to the school has revealed that Headmistress Minerva McGonagall – Severus Snape’s successor (turn to page 12 for more on the disgraced ex-Headmaster) – has successfully removed the last traces of dark magic at Hogwarts. Four individuals were seen in the company of the Headmistress on the seventh floor of the main building, where it is rumoured that Fiendfyre (cursed dark fire) destroyed an entire room. National hero, Harry Potter, is pictured here and rumoured to be one of said individuals who assisted in the cause alongside friends Ronald Weasley, George Weasley and Hermione Granger. The question remains – is the school really safe to send your children back to so soon? With September just over three months away, Professor McGonagall has been contacted for a comment.”_

She tore the page out and fought the urge to crumple the sheet into a ball. This was bad. Someone was either inside Hogwarts spying on them and reporting back to the _Prophet_ , or Harry had a stalker journalist on his tail. Either way the school’s security was being breached. She had to tell the others when they got back if they hadn’t seen this already, but that wouldn’t be for a few hours yet.

And openly challenging Professor McGonagall like that... _Very brave_. _Or – more likely - unbelievably stupid_.

There was nothing to be done about it now. So Hermione debated with herself whether to go into the Ministry and observe the afternoon trial. Today was Amycus and Alecto Carrow, due to start in thirty minutes. She knew that Neville was giving a testimony and their fate would certainly be Azkaban. It was a show trial. Going to the Ministry would be productive, preparing them for what to expect when they went together. Harry hadn’t attended a trial yet; she and Ron had agreed to go with him for a select few – for the Malfoys in particular, but those weren’t until the end of June. Anything Harry did was likely to be construed as a political statement either in favour of or against the recovering Ministry. Despite his good relationship with Kingsley, he refused to be their poster boy, just as he refused Scrimegour. He had to be careful.

She would ask Neville about it when she next saw him.

Instead, Hermione changed out of her dreary black clothes into more summery attire. She was already running out of suitable clothes for funerals. Charming clothes darker to a respectable shade of black was a last resort, so she attempted a cleaning spell on the knee length dress she wore. It worked well enough and she hung it to dry.

The weather was deceptively warm but threatened to break overhead so she braved a denim skirt and grey top. Settling on the bed, she pulled out a heavy notebook and Australian guidebook from her beaded bag. She’d put this off for weeks. But finding two people who couldn’t remember you on an enormous island the other side of the world would require serious planning, even if she wasn’t going to find them for another year

_Another entire year._

Hermione felt her stomach sink as it hit her. She took a deep, grounding breath. As long as they were safe and happy, they wouldn’t even know how long it had been since they’d seen their only daughter. Another year of their new normal life for them. But she knew.

She counted every day that passed.

***

As expected, when she showed him the article, Harry tore it up and burned the shreds to ashes with his wand.

“The _Prophet_ ,” he said flatly, “isn’t fit to be toilet paper.” He didn’t say any more about it.

In fact, as Hermione watched Ron and Ginny bicker over a game of chess, she noticed that Harry wasn’t saying much about anything. He was being particularly tight lipped as he helped set the table for dinner that night. He was brooding. After so many years as best friends, Hermione was good at gauging his erratic moods and short fuse – she tried to catch his eye but Harry didn’t look at her. After he put down the last glass, he rubbed his forearm nervously before speaking.

“I want to move into Grimmauld Place.”

Ron and Ginny looked up, Ron’s pawn cowering as a knight froze above it, sword drawn to behead it.

Mrs Weasley whipped round from the stove, frowning at him. Hermione saw him brace himself against her temper.

“Why on earth would you do that, Harry! You have a perfectly good home here.” She fixed him with a reproached and slightly hurt look, ignoring the saucepan of potatoes boiling over behind her.

“It’s my house, since Sirius left it to me, and Kreacher’s kept the place so tidy. We stayed there for a while last summer and it’s not how you remember it anymore, Mrs Weasley-“

“For the last time, call me Molly, Harry.” She interrupted.

Harry bristled but continued. Hermione could tell he’d planned his arguments in his head. “Ok, Molly. Grimmauld is unrecognisable now, and could even be decent with a coat of paint and some more cleaning. I don’t want to keep overstaying my welcome here.”

Molly folded her arms, unconvinced. “You could never be unwelcome here. There’s no need to rush any decisions.”

“I’m not rushing anything.” Harry retorted quickly. Hermione bit her tongue, watching the argument unfold from her armchair.

“I have said before that while I am not your mother and you are of age, you are at perfect liberty to make your own decisions, Harry. But please, have you really thought this through properly? That place isn’t suitable!” Mrs Weasley was doing her best to keep her tone civil, but her reddening cheeks gave her away.

“Yes.” He snapped. Harry’s hands were tightening into fists by his side. Ginny’s eyes darted from her boyfriend to her mother in barely concealed horror. “Of course I have.”

“Really? You’ve never lived on your own before. Do you think your washing does itself and folds itself neatly at the end of your bed every week?” Molly glared at him. Hermione wanted to hide behind the cushion.

“Mum stop-" Ginny called out in a frustration.

“No, don’t worry, Ginny. Apparently I’ve never had to do anything for myself before. I’ve never had to fend for myself, scrounge for food or – say, I don’t know – live out of a tent for six months before battling the darkest wizard in history. I’m incapable of taking care of myself.” Harry’s tone was icy.

Molly took a moment to size him up. The bubbling of the pan on the stove was the only sound.

“Very well.” She sniffed and returned her attention to the steaming saucepan. “Although I really don’t see the need. When were you thinking of moving in, then?”

Harry relaxed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked quickly at his audience behind him, Ron was shaking his head in awe.

“The end of the month if possible.” He said. “I might need some help with wards and protection, though. And maybe some redecorating, if you’d like to help me? I also don’t know much about domestic charms...” The last part was phrased as an olive-branch of a question. Hermione could sense just how much Harry didn’t want to upset Mrs Weasley. Redecorating any part of Grimmauld place would not be for his benefit – it was to keep her happy.

It worked. Molly strained the potatoes and set a chopping spell on two onions and a carrot.

“ _Carvo_.” She said, and waved her wand again to clean the now empty potato saucepan with _scourgify_. “These are useful ones. I think I have some more books on everyday household charms upstairs.” She replied in a carefully polite voice.

“Thank you, Molly.” Harry exhaled, then smiled at Ginny behind Molly's back. The game of chess resumed with a _crunch_ as Ron’s pawn was decapitated. Ginny won within another ten moves.

Ron pushed the chess board away, muttering to himself about “training the enemy too well.” Under the cover of laughter, Harry caught his best friend’s attention and gestured with his head that he wanted to talk to them all upstairs. Hermione followed the boys and Ginny up to Ron’s – still sickeningly vibrant – orange bedroom.

“Why didn’t you tell us before? I could have had your back!” Ron said as he lay back on his small bed. Ginny gave him a withering look.

“As if you’d ever talk back to mum like that.” Ginny said.

Ron glared at her, but Hermione was privately agreeing with his sister. Ron appreciated his mother’s cooking too much to ever really get into a heated disagreement with her.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, to be honest. But I didn’t want to upset your mum. I don’t know – it’s been about three weeks back here, right? I can’t go back to being cooked and cleaned for. I need my own space, and Grimmauld is just sitting there empty.” Now the fight drained out of him, Harry looked increasingly guilty. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice at her.”

Ginny moved closer to him, sneaking an arm round his waist. “She’ll forgive you.” He kissed her temple.

“Harry... how many spare bedrooms are there in Grimmauld?” Hermione asked.

“Four, I think? However many we found in the summer.” Harry replied.

“Do you – do you think maybe I could take one of those rooms? Just until September! I can pay rent, or do the cooking.” She looked down at the floor, avoiding Harry’s gaze. During the argument, the phrase “overstaying my welcome” had been rattling around in her head. He was right – staying at the Burrow was not the long term solution to her problem. Charlie’s room would never be _her_ room. Neither would a cold room in London, but at least it would stop her feeling like she was under the Weasley’s feet all the time.

 _And it would be closer to a certain shop in Diagon Alley._ A small voice piped up _._

“Hermione.” She looked up at Harry to see him smiling kindly at her. “Of course you can. Don’t even think about rent.”

“Oi!” Ron sat up on the bed. “What about me?”

“You can move in too if you want, you prat. You didn’t have to ask!” Harry and Hermione chuckled at Ron’s confused expression.

“Oh. Right.”

Harry looked at Ginny. “You know she won’t let you,” he said sadly.

Ginny’s shoulders slumped. “I know. It’s just not fair. But next year, after Hogwarts, she can’t do anything to stop us.” She tilted her head round at Harry with a blazing look on her face. Hermione tactfully inspected a Chuddley Canons poster on the ceiling instead.

“Ahem. Big brother and best mate still in the room.” Ron grumbled.

Hermione wanted to thump him, but it was too much effort to get a book out of her beaded bag.

“Should we go tomorrow and check on the house?” Ron asked, an excited grin across his face.

“We should take Bill or someone with us, Harry. It won’t be safe since I took Yaxley inside the barriers. We don’t know how many Death Eaters have been there. Or what they’ve done to the place.” Hermione said. She still felt terrible about that.

Ginny sat down at the foot of Ron’s bed. “I think Bill usually has Fridays off. To make up for the weekend work all the time.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll send him an owl in the morning and see if he’s free. If not then we have our own resident cursebreaker here anyway.”

It took Hermione several seconds to realise he was talking about her. She huffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous. That was luck more than anything.”

Ron rolled his eyes. Harry raised his hands as an offer of peace. “Ok, ok. I’ll ask Bill.” He looked at his best friends. “So, we’re really doing this.”

Hermione smiled at him. “Not like we haven’t lived together for most of the past seven years,” she reminded him.

“Not like this. This is _adult_ living together.” Ron said – then his face dropped. “Oh Merlin, we’re gonna have to pay bills.”

Ginny and Hermione burst out laughing. Harry walked over and sat next to him on the bed.

“You’ve hunted dark objects across the country and you’re honestly worried about the bills? Come on, mate. We’ll manage.”

***

The next few couple of days passed in a pattern of sombre black clothes and memorials. They apparated to a variety churches and graveyards across the country to pay their respects to the defenders of Hogwarts. A painful and jarring a mix of muggle families who couldn’t know the full truth amongst wizarding school friends for some of them.

Colin Creevey, Marcus Garrow, Lucy Turner, Amelia Pevensey, Lucas Thornton.

Lucas was a thirteen year old Hufflepuff. And this was just the first week.

Harry clasped Ginny’s hand tightly at each burial.

***

**May 22 1998**

Errol returned to the Burrow on Friday at breakfast looking exhausted but triumphantly clutching a note to Harry in his talons. He read it and looked up at Ron and Hermione across the table, nodding. Bill would help them that afternoon.

It wasn’t long before the three of them were making their excuses to Mrs Weasley and standing at the edge of the Burrow’s wards. The crooked gate at the end of the path creaked lazily in the light gusts of wind.

“Ready?” Harry asked.

“When you are.” Hermione replied. Ron took her hand and Harry took the other. With a familiar but suffocating twist, they disapparated into the void.

The sounds of London hit her faster than the smells. Going only between Hogwarts and the Burrow had numbed Hermione’s senses and she had completely forgotten just how noisy muggle London could be. The roaring of passing buses, the call of the market down the street and the blaring of a CD in a nearby open-top car threw her for a second. The smells of pollution mixed with the stench of urine and – was that muggle weed? She dropped their hands and covered her nose.

They didn’t have to wait long, as Bill apparated with a _pop_ next to them in the alleyway.

“Thanks for agreeing to help, Bill.” Harry shook his hand. The eldest of the Weasley sons looked almost cheerful at the prospect of potentially facing some horrific traps set on the property.

“It’s no bother. I’m just surprised you actually asked for help – isn’t this the sort of thing you three wander into unprepared?” He teased. Ron elbowed him in the ribs. “Ok, ok. Let’s get started.”

The four of them turned the corner out of the alley onto the main street, facing numbers ten and twelve. Bill drew his wand, keeping it covered by the sleeve of his cloak. Hermione guessed this was to avoid looking suspicious to any muggles watching. His mouth moved silently and she watched closely as he made small but defined movements with his arm. A deep tearing sound came from between the terraced houses in front of them and the earth shook as number twelve Grimmauld place pushed its way into view. Bill kept whispering until the house juddered to a halt, the muggles in the adjacent buildings completely unaware.

“Right, the wards had faded since nobody was maintaining them,” Bill spoke over his shoulder at Harry without looking away from the house. “So I’ve put on the usual protections. The Death Eaters tried to hide the house from you but I found a way round that. Nobody’s inside from what I can tell.” He lowered his wand arm. “After you, homeowner.”

Harry went first up the steps, shuddering as he stepped through the invisible sheet of wards. Bill followed him and didn’t react to the cold tingle Hermione felt as she and Ron stepped through. It felt like someone had cracked an egg on her head and let it trickle down her neck to her toes.

Bill smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I forgot to warn you. That won’t happen every time. That’s a spell I learnt in Cairo – you three will be able to pass the threshold at any time in the day or night without setting off an alarm. It’s a useful one, if a bit unsettling at first.”

“That’s great, cheers Bill.” Harry stepped forward. “Now what?”

“Now,” Bill put one palm on the black door, “we see what’s been left for you.”

He pushed the door open with his wand at eye level, emitting a blue haze out the end. Hermione tensed as Harry walked into the hallway next to Bill. There was a warm rush of air and a high pitched maniacal cackle surrounded them. It caused Hermione to gasp, her hair standing on end. Her heart plummeted and she stepped backwards, crashing into Ron.

“No! Not her!” Hermione shouted, eyes darting round in panic.

Ron grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her upright. “She’s dead, Hermione, don’t listen to her! It’s not real!”

Bellatrix Lestrange’s mad laugh shocked her to her core and the gouges on her arm that had faded almost completely throbbed at the sound. Bill was muttering rapidly under his breath, slashing his wand through the air and battling the ghostly form of the Death Eater. She disappeared in a puff of black smoke that seeped like water out of the hallway and down the steps into the road. Still laughing, it disappeared into the closest drain.

Bill breathed heavily. “Come in and shut the door. She’s not going to hurt you, Hermione.”

Her feet were frozen, Ron had to gently push her inside. Harry cast a _lumos_ and came up to her.

“You can go back if you need to. Don’t stay if you’re not feeling ok.” His green eyes were filled with worry and she snapped out of her panic, shaking her head.

“I-I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” She pulled herself free from Ron’s grip and pulled her wand out. “What can we do?” She asked Bill.

He pointed up the stairs. “Besides the aura from the painting upstairs, there’s no other sign of life. But there are two boggarts somewhere up there. Could you get rid of them after I’ve checked each room?”

“Course we can. We should try to get rid of Sirius’ mum too... is it safe to go in the kitchen?” Ron asked. Hermione peered down the hallway at it.

Bill did a quick and wordless check. “I think so.” He sent a red spell up into the air, lighting all the candelabras on the lowest floor. “That was _lumos incendia_ , Harry, you’ll need that one for a place like this.”

“Thanks.“ Harry said, giving Hermione a one armed hug. Her pulse had calmed down now but she knew the tortured laughter would echo throughout her nightmares again that night.

The house was impeccably clean considering it had been abandoned months ago. Hermione guessed Kreacher must have been able to stay and keep up with the maintenance. House elf magic had always been an avid interest of hers.

“Harry,” she called over, “where’s Kreacher?” She walked into the gloomy kitchen and lit the candle flames wordlessly with her wand. Another spotless room. It was eerie.

“He’ll be at Hogwarts if he’s not here.” Harry said. He opened various drawers and cupboards still with his wand in hand. He paused. “Kreacher?” He called out to the air.

 _Crack_.

“Master!” Kreacher appeared in a bright white towel, the fake locket still hanging firmly around his neck. “Master has returned!”

“Hey, Kreacher.” Harry knelt down to the elf’s eye level.

“Would Master like some late lunch? Kreacher has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.” Kreacher snapped his fingers, conjuring a loaf of bread and an array of cheeses and cold meats on a wooden board. Ron sat down at the table and tore off the tip of the loaf hungrily.

“Thank you, Kreacher. Can you tell us if there is any more dark magic left in the house?” Harry asked. The stairs groaned as Bill went up them.

Kreacher’s bulbous eyes widened. “Master saw Mistress Bella’s gift for the mud-“ he stopped himself, noticing Hermione. “Muggleborn. No, Master, no more bad magic. Kreacher would not lie to Master.” Harry frowned but stood up.

“Ok.” He walked over to the bottom of the staircase. “Kreacher says there’s nothing else, Bill. I think he’s telling the truth.” He called up.

“Great! Nearly done. All clear so far.” Came the reply on a higher floor.

Harry looked back at the house elf. “You can go now if you want, Kreacher. We will be moving back in soon.” Harry hesitated. “Could you could help us prepare three bedrooms net week? If that’s ok.”

The elf bowed respectfully. “Kreacher will stay home now Master has returned. Kreacher is happy to see Master and his friends.” He disapparated with a _crack_.

“He’s definitely grown on me.” Ron choked through a mouthful.

Bill poked his head round the door. “You’re all good, guys. Nothing more than those bogarts and a caterwauling charm which I’ve disabled. Guess they didn’t hang around here long after all.”

“Brilliant. Thank you so much.” Harry walked over and spoke with Bill quietly at the bottom of the stairwell, the finery of the house demanding a hushed tone of reverence. Hermione felt like they were in a library or cathedral rather than a home.

Hermione left Ron to stuff his face and wandered into the sitting room next door. It was frozen in time, the elegant bureau, antique tables and lounge chairs exactly where they had been on the morning they’d left for the Ministry all those months ago. The Slytherin emblem was draped on every available surface. Moving into the next space she concluded that the drawing room was much the same.

She was in danger of getting lost through all the interconnected rooms – they just kept _going_. It was a deceptive labyrinth of parlour rooms and living rooms on the ground floor, and by the time she’d traced her steps back to the kitchen the others were ready to go.

“There you are.” Bill pocketed his wand. “We were about to send out a search party.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to check out this floor.” She turned to Harry and Ron. “What now?”

“Pub.” Said Ron firmly. Harry grinned.

“I second that, I don’t need to go home for a while. Fleur won’t mind,” Bill said.

“Pub it is. The Leaky Cauldron?” Harry suggested.

“I can recommend a quieter one if you want? The Thestral Arms at the bottom of Diagon Alley isn’t bad.” Bill said.

Ron stretched his neck out. “I don’t care where we go, so long as there’s a pint in it for me.”

“Sounds good to me. We could do with an afternoon off. Merlin, I don’t remember the last time we went to a pub.” Harry agreed. He opened the front door and headed down the steps into the sunlight forcing its way through the cloud cover.

It was a fairly short walk to Diagon Alley from Grimmauld Place. _Another perk of moving to the city,_ Hermione thought _._ Bill disguised any amazement he felt pretty well as they walked through muggle London. He managed a lot better than Ron – who Hermione and Harry had to tear away from a bus shelter because he was staring at the ‘unmoving people’ on the old advert. Muggles were looking at them weirdly.

When they reached it, The Leaky Cauldron was - as Bill anticipated - very busy for a Friday afternoon, and the group attracted more than a few stares and whispers as they passed through. One middle-aged witch came right up to Harry and shook his hand vigorously before he’d even noticed she was there.

“Thank you, Harry Potter, _thank you_.”

Harry politely excused himself and hurried out the back exit. “It’s like the first time I came here with Hagrid when I was a kid,” he told Hermione, flexing his hand that the witch had gripped so fiercely.

Ron tapped the bricks in sequence and Diagon Alley revealed itself to the group. In the weeks since the end of the war most shop fronts were still boarded up, Olivander’s shop one of the many still vacant and derelict. There were signs of repairs happening on multiple plots. As they walked down the cobblestones it was hard to imagine how colourful and bustling the streets had been before the attacks started. Madam Malkin’s and Flourish & Blots were the only shops open until they reached the one beacon of hope for the alley that was the purple building halfway down.

The chattering mannequin head on the outside of Fred and George’s shop was constantly raising its top hat and releasing streams of blue and purple bubbles into the faces of the pedestrians. They were met with mixtures of either irritated looks as shoppers hurried by or stares of child-like wonder.

“Oh, Bloody hell.” Bill moaned quietly. Hermione thought it was fantastic.

“Let’s duck in and say hi. We could do with a laugh.” Harry said, stepping into Bill’s shadow in an attempt to hide his face from the few shoppers that had stopped to stare at them. Hermione hadn’t even thought about the potential of the press. _Shit_. She ushered them into the shade of the terraced shops and walked rapidly towards Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with her head down. She hoped to Godric that no photographers were around.

Bill rapped on the front door to the shop.

“We’re not open yet!” Came a voice from inside.

“How about for your brothers?” Bill shouted back, hands pressed against the glass to try and look inside.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps and then the door was wrenched open to reveal Fred in a brown apron. Bill nearly fell into him, Fred opened the door in such haste.

“Definitely not for my ugliest brothers.” He grinned mischievously, his copper hair a mess but looking genuinely pleased to see them all. He stood back, opening the door fully to them. “Come on then, in!”

Bill, Ron, Harry and Hermione crossed into the shop. Fred slapped the boys on the back affectionately and pulled Hermione in to a brotherly hug.

“What are you guys doing here? Didn’t know you were coming by!” He pocketed the quill from behind his ear and showed them over to the back office.

“I was helping Harry out with something at Grimmauld and then decided it was definitely pub time. We figured you’re working too hard and should join us.” Bill explained, striding after his little brother. Fred chuckled weakly but didn’t deny it.

Hermione took in the extent of the chaos around them; boxes upon boxes of produce were stacked all over the shop floor, pallets of multi-coloured fireworks spread out randomly and an enormous crate of pygmy puffs was squeaking at them. Fred noticed Hermione’s line of sight and picked up a purple ball of fluff, placing it on his shoulder.

“Cute, aren’t they! They bred like mad while we were closed. Didn’t expect it! We’ll have a sale on them when we re-open.” He brushed apart the curtain to the office. “Georgie! We’ve got visitors,” Fred called.

Hermione peered round his frame to see George kneeling on the wooden floor with piles of paperwork around him spilling over from the covered desk. George looked up distractedly, breaking into a smile when he saw who it was.

“Oh, hello. Don’t remember you four saying you’d be coming by? Not that I’m not pleased to see you -” He started, dusting his hands on his knees and standing up.

“- But it’s just a bit unexpected.” Fred finished.

“Can you be tempted away by a pint and some food down the road? You both look knackered.” Harry said.

The twins looked at each other. Hermione couldn’t help but notice the dark semicircles under George’s eyes, or how flat his hair looked pressed to his scalp in a wilted way.

“Come on you two, you can afford an hour off.” Bill crossed his arms and Hermione could tell he was goading them. Sometimes it was the only way to get what you wanted from Fred and George.

“Alright already we’re coming!” Fred pulled his apron over his head and chucked it on the desk chair unceremoniously. George followed suit and unrolled his sleeves over his forearms.

“You said the magic word.” He said, leading them to the back exit of the shop onto the back street.

“What, ‘break’?” Asked Ron.

“Nah,” said Fred, “pub.”

The Thestral Arms was mercifully emptier than the other pubs and the six of them easily found a table in the corner. The decor was darker and more subdued than the Leaky, the clientele reflecting that. Not as shady as the Hog’s Head, Hermione decided, but not far off.

Fred bought a round at the bar, returning to the table with a tray of alcoholic butterbeers.

“Cheers,” He said, lifting his own “to getting us out the damn shop and making us take a well deserved break.”

Hermione drank deeply, feeling the warmth of the rich liquid reaching her stomach. She’d only had alcohol-free butterbeer before. It was equally as delicious and smooth, lifting her mood considerably. By the end of the drink she felt as light as a feather.

She was sat between Fred and Ron, listening as the conversation turned from shop talk to anecdotes about their childhoods at the Burrow. She was happy listening rather than contributing, and she saw Harry’s longing expression as the brothers described their summers spent on brooms and camping in the fields.

Hours passed before she knew it, and by her fourth (or was it fifth?) drink she realised slowly that she was really, truly tipsy. More than she cared to admit. She shooed Ron out of his seat on the end of the circular bench so she could escape and find a toilet.

She managed not to stumble and kept her composure as she walked round the corner towards the WC sign until she closed the door behind her. She locked it shut and then rested her hands on the rim of the sink in front of the mirror.

She blinked slowly in an attempt to steady her vision.

“Hold it together and get something to eat, you fool.” She scolded herself.

“That’s it dear. You tell her." The mirror mumbled back sleepily.

Hermione ran the cold tap and cupped the water in her palms, dipping her face into it for cool relief. The shock helped bring her focus back down to earth and she drank from her hands. She cast a drying charm over her face. She felt better already, but definitely needed food.

She unlocked the door and began the walk back to the table. Before she got any further than the end of the corridor she noticed someone waiting by the radiator.

“Are you ok, Granger?” George moved towards her, reaching out to steady her. Her clouded brain was confused. What was he doing?

“Why’re you here?” The words tumbled out in a mess. She tried very hard not to show the hope that fluttered through her chest when he met her gaze with those round hazel eyes. She didn’t like how close she was to him. He faced her, almost a foot taller than her, arms outstretched. She wanted to close the gap. She wanted that flicker of whatever it was that coursed through her when he was near, whatever she couldn’t describe. Her mouth went dry.

 _You’re drunk and he’s your friend._ _Don’t_. The voice of sober reason reminded her.

Hermione stepped back, pressing her cold fingertips to her forehead.

“I wanted to check on you. You looked a bit out of it.” George stuffed his hands in his pockets, still looking concerned. “Do you need anything?”

Her lips parted and _something_ inside her nearly spoke out of turn. She bit her cheek to hold it back.

 _Don’t_. The reasonable voice hissed.

“Food. I haven’t eaten in...” she counted the hours on two hands, “a while.” What she wouldn’t give for a bowl of pasta right now.

George rolled his eyes. “I know a place. Fancy a walk? The others won’t mind.”

Hermione swayed on the spot, willing herself to concentrate on his words. “Sure. Lead the way.”

They left the pub together without passing the rest of their table. George led her down a splintering fork in the path that she’d never been down before. Already the fresh air was doing wonders for her head, and she noticed that the buildings this side of the Alley were much older than the ones she was used to. George saw her admiring the architecture.

“The north end of Diagon Alley was burnt down in the Great Fire of London of 1666. One of the dragons in the depths of Gringotts broke free and smashed the shops to pieces. Whatever it didn’t trample got destroyed by the fire. The south end was far enough away that there was time to protect it, and most of the buildings survived. The muggles think the fire started in one of their bakeries, of course.”

George smirked at her. “Now who would let a dragon out of the most secure place in England?” He mused.

“Piss off, Weasley.” She muttered and felt her cheeks go pink. He laughed loudly at her embarrassment.

 _Oh Merlin_. A different voice sighed in her mind.

He looked up at the blue sign swinging above their heads, reading ‘The Occamy’s Bakery’. The scent of freshly baked bread and warm cheese rolls filled her senses and Hermione’s stomach grumbled in anticipation.

“It’s my favourite secret in this place. You’ve got to try their twisted chocolate wand – and their moon cake is unrivalled.” He thought for a second. “Don’t tell my mum I said that.”

Hermione wasn’t really listening anymore as she took in the full spread of baked goods hot out the oven behind the counter. There was too much choice, she wanted one of everything.

“Mind if I order for us?” George asked.

“Go ahead.”

George turned to the bored looking witch behind the cashier desk. “One twisted chocolate wand, two Niffler bombs and a salted pumpkin pasty, please.” She placed the assortment of pastries in a paper bag and handed it to George.

“A galleon and two sickles.” He paid before Hermione had the chance to check her pockets for loose change. George thanked the server and sat in one of the silver chairs outside the window on the pavement. Hermione dropped into the seat opposite with her stomach audibly crying out for the contents of the bag.

“Here, try a niffler bomb.” George handed her a round pastry with an etching of the creature chasing its tail around the base. Hermione bit into it, tasting custard and vanilla along with buttery sweet crust.

“Oh good GODRIC that is good.” She scoffed it quickly, sucking her fingers for the last morsels. George was laughing quietly to himself so much he nearly choked on his own bite.

“Try half of the other two. The salt on the outside of the pumpkin pasty makes it, I promise. Way better than the ones on the Hogwarts Express.” He pushed the bag towards her.

Hermione felt the effect of the butterbeer fade as she ate. She made short work of the remaining treats, not even feeling ashamed at how savagely she’d torn them apart. She felt content.

“They were delicious. I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place.” There were a few restaurants, an ancient looking bookshop and a hairdressers salon further along the row. She looked back at George who was finishing off the pumpkin pasty half. “Thank you.”

He cocked his head. “Anytime. Let me know if you need rescuing from my any of my brother’s pub sessions whenever you need.” His tone was light-hearted but his eyes looked serious. He checked his wristwatch and cursed. “I need to get back to the shop.”

Hermione’s chest felt immediately heavier. “It’s ok, we’ve taken up so much of your afternoon. Sorry.” She folded the empty bag into squares and put it in her pocket.

“You don’t need to be sorry.” He said quickly.

She swallowed nervously and stood up. She was reminded forcefully of the time a few weeks ago when he’d held her on the quidditch pitch. He hadn’t let her apologise then either.

“I’ll let you get back to work.” She said.

George stood up too and they walked back in silence up to the Thestral Arms.

“George – “ she swivelled on the spot before re-entering the pub. Ron was going to absolutely rinse her for not holding her drink, she could feel it. Bill probably would too. “If you need any help with the shop, just say. Please. Don’t overdo it.”

He smiled, clearly disregarding her concern. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if we do. You’re always welcome to come by if you get bored at school. Or at home. I know how mum can be.”

_She might as well tell him now, right?_

“Ron and I are gonna move in with Harry into Grimmauld next week. So, we could pop round more often. We won’t be far away.” The last part came out more earnest than she intended.

George’s eyes widened. He rolled a sleeve back up to his elbow. “Oh, right. Cool.” He smiled at her again. “I look forward to seeing you around more."

He looked like he was going to say something else. She thought he would. But he just said “bye, Hermione,” and headed back up the main street towards the shop without a backwards glance.

Hermione ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach that wasn’t the weight of the pastries.

Collecting herself, she pushed open the pub door ready to face the ridicule she was dreading but likely deserved.


	9. Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had quite a bit of writer's block with this one. But future chapters are already lined up! Especially towards the end of their summer. Let me know what you think! Thanks for 500 reads so quickly :)

**Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, May 30 1998**

“One more box, Fred.” George shouted over his shoulder.

“Great, put it with the rest of them! Could you do the cauldron after that? I’m swamped back here!” Fred called back.

George put the final box of puking pastilles on the shelf and sighed, hanging his head in resignation. They’d put it off as long as they could.

He pulled out a pair of thick rubber gloves from his apron pocket and grabbed the bottles of cleaning potions he’d borrowed from the Burrow’s kitchen. The cauldron of display love potion hadn’t been emptied when the twins went into hiding, and the liquid had festered and gone off without being disposed of properly. While he had only got an E in his potions OWL, George still knew the dangers of out of date potions. _Scourgify_ and other spells wouldn’t do the trick – this needed manual scrubbing and a special order of treatment to completely clean the cauldron and save it from being thrown out. It was a mid-range pewter one that Fred insisted they shouldn’t replace if they could disinfect it fully.

George cast a bubble-head charm over his face to avoid intoxicating himself and passed through the encasing shield Fred had set to contain the putrid fumes from the rest of the shop. He set to work

Fred kept weaving and jogging across the room, putting the last touches in place for the grand re-opening.

“Why did you let Verity take the bloody day off? We need her, we’re running out of time!” Fred said as he reattached the wire line over their heads, levitating the hysterical unicycle Umbridge figurine back in her rightful place. He then began drawing green and pink streamers with his wand to decorate the windows.

“You know why. It’s her Mum’s funeral today.” George responded in laboured breaths, his arms already tired from the exertion.

“Oh. Yeah.”

George glanced at his brother to see his guilty expression. The Ministry hadn’t even found Verity’s muggle-born mother’s body. _So yeah_ , George thought, _I let her have the day off._

“I’m floo-ing Angelina, she said she’d help out if we needed. And we do.” Fred said in a tired voice and disappeared into the office.

George kept working for another twenty minutes until he finally scraped the last of the love potion off the bottom of the cauldron. He leant backwards, resting his body against the cool of the floorboards. His shirt was sticking to his back in the muggy heat. May was morphing into an even warmer June and the shop was getting stuffier by the day. He removed the bubble of air from round his face and charmed the fan in the corner of the room to turn on, moving the stagnant air around.

“Heya, George.” Angelina said, approaching from the office. Fred had his arm slung over her shoulder, beaming. She’d been round a few times since the twins had moved back into the flat above. It was obvious to anyone how much happier Fred looked with her nearby. 

“She couldn’t resist my masculine charm and has come to save the day!” Fred crowed, pecking her on the cheek. Angelina rolled her eyes but smiled at his insufferable yet adorable attitude.

George sat up. “Hey, Ange.”

She looked back at Fred. “You mean you basically begged me to come over,” she teased. “What do you need me to do?” She asked, pushing up her sleeves and looking around the shop.

George groaned and pulled off the rubber gloves. “What _don’t_ we need you to do, more like.”

“Clean the windows, set up the fireworks display, rehouse the pygmy puffs and deep clean the enclosures, sweep the stairs, write a press statement, go to Gringotts, find the disillusion hats, charm the toys-” Fred rattled off, counting on his fingers until Angelina shut him up with a finger pressed to his lips.

“Ok, breathe, Freddie. I’ll handle the pygmy puffs and general cleaning. I’ll make a start upstairs while you two sort yourselves out and work on that statement and whatever you need to do at Gringotts.” She looked at George with a cheeky light in her eyes. “Quit lounging around, Weasley. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“But I-“ George spluttered, getting to his feet. ”I just needed five minutes to myself!” He shouted after her as she ran up the staircase to the next floor.

“You don’t _have_ five minutes!” She shouted back, laughing.

George glared at his brother.

“Doesn’t she remind you of someone? Great bloody idea it was to bring _her_ round.”

Fred was gazing after Angelina with a dazed expression on his face. He looked besotted. “Hmm? What do you mean? Remind me of who?”

George clipped him round the back of the head. She was – annoyingly – right. They didn’t have time to waste.

“She sounded just like Mum.” He said.

Fred’s face slipped from bliss to disgust.

“Oh Merlin’s pants.” Fred put his palms against his eyes.

George snickered and started with the firework pallets, arranging them into an impressive display. They’d done well, to be able to reopen so quickly. Those few weeks before they went into hiding, the twins had worked tirelessly on new ranges of products – to give the impression it was business as usual and they had nothing to hide. It also distracted them, by tinkering away and creating useful subterfuge devices like the decoy detonators and invisible extendable-ears. They’d managed to stash most of their good stock in a vanishing cabinet Fred had shrunk and covered with an advanced camouflage charm. It blended into the office wall so well the Death Eaters hadn’t found it, and their hard work was saved.

After the fireworks were arranged neatly, George started on the statement to the press, using buzzwords like “grateful”, “honoured”, “trying times” and “family business”. He sent it by owl to the _Daily Prophet_ , _Witch Weekly_ and the _Quibbler_ offices. After he slogged through that he went over the shop’s books, took out the recycling, cleaned the staff aprons and kept busy for hours with constant small tasks that had piled up on them. The daylight from the office had dimmed considerably when Fred staggered back into the office and collapsed into the swivel chair.

“I think we’re done.” Fred said with his eyes closed. “Nothing else left out there.”

George wrestled with an unforgiving strain in his shoulder, tense from all the physical work. “You sure? Tomorrow needs to go as smoothly as it can. The alley’s still so empty...” He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “What if we don’t bounce back?” He asked quietly, admitting their shared fear out loud.

Fred shrugged. “We’ve done all we can.” He said, like that sorted the matter. Fred was never one to stress. “I dunno about you but I need a decent night’s sleep if we’re on our feet all day tomorrow.”

He rolled his neck and then headed back out, presumably to find Angelina.

George checked his wristwatch. It was almost six, the day was creeping away from them. Sixteen hours until they opened. He gulped.

“Are you coming?” Fred popped his head through the curtain.

“Where?” George asked, confused.

“To the Burrow, idiot,” Fred said. “I told you earlier – Mum insisted. She said we’d be too busy for the Sunday roast so she wants us home tonight. Feeding us before we get trampled by the masses.” He chuckled, pushing past the curtain and slamming the open account book George had his nose in firmly shut. “We’ve done enough here, c’mon.”

George wanted to protest; he’d slept in the office overnight before when they’d been busy, and he was happy to wolf down a sandwich and stay there. He’d completely forgotten about dinner. But Fred was tapping his foot impatiently and had a ‘don’t argue with me’ face on that he usually reserved for their more difficult customers.

 _Oh yeah_ , George remembered, _he’s bringing Angelina home for the first time_. So, George heaved his tired body out of the chair and stepped up to the Floo gate.

Angelina appeared as Fred went out to lock the front doors and close up.

“I’m so nervous,” she said, “I can’t believe I haven’t met your parents yet.” She bit her thumb anxiously and picked off bits of fluff from her cardigan. It was only now that George realised she’d made an effort to look presentable. Looking down at himself he realised he looked like he’d spent all day in his grimiest work clothes looking crumpled and exhausted. Which he was, so that was fine.

George smiled at her, certain she had nothing to worry about. “Relax, Ange. If you make him happy,” he nodded his head over to the front door, “and make a show of stopping him from turning Percy into a parrot at dinner, they’ll love you. Also, show an interest in Dad’s obsession with muggles and you’re golden.”

Angelina frowned. “I’m sorry - turning Percy into a what?”

George slowly pulled out a double ended canary cream and a parrot polo from his back pocket. One end was bright yellow and the other was a mix of rich blues and reds.

Her eyes widened. “I’ll keep a look out.”

“Oh no, don’t do that! You’ll spoil all our fun! I’ll only slip it in his food if Percy’s being a right twat. Besides, I kind of want you to see the full extent of a Molly Weasley rage. They’re legendary.” Fred ambled back into the room, looking weary but pleased. “All good here. Let’s go.”

George called out “The Burrow!” and appeared, coughing, in the warm and cosy lounge. He moved out the way to allow Fred and Angelina to follow behind him. Fred had his arm round her waist and whispered something encouraging in her ear.

George left them to it, walking into the empty kitchen. “Mum?”

“Up here, boys! Down in a tick.” Molly called from the floor above. She hurried down the stairs, flattening her flyaway hairs and wearing what George recognised as her best dress. Her usually rosy cheeks were exceptionally pink today and a shimmery substance was on her eyelids.

“Are you wearing makeup?” George gaped at her.

Molly ignored his question and drew herself up to her full height – barely reaching his shoulders. “I made an _effort_ , George Fabian Weasley, and I rather hoped you would have done the same!” She eyed his ruffled shirt and stained trousers.

“You look nice! Sorry, Mum.” He mumbled. He’d only seen her wear makeup once before – at Bill’s wedding.

“Out of the way, out of the way,” she bustled past him into the living room to Fred and Angelina.

“Hello Angelina dear, I’m Molly. It’s so nice to finally meet you!” He heard his mum introduce herself. There was a quiet mumble back from Angelina and a muted laugh from Fred as the pleasantries of conversation began to flow from behind the wall.

With neither Charlie nor Percy ever having a track record of bringing girls home, George could only liken the situation to when Bill brought Fleur to the Burrow for the first time. And that was a sufficiently awkward memory for everyone involved. He smiled to himself as he remembered his Dad having to deflect Ginny’s spoonful of mushy peas away from Fleur’s platinum blonde hair. Molly and Angelina already seemed to be getting along well.

 _Actually_ , a snide voice mused in his one ear, _Ron broke the mould by bringing a girl home before Bill even met Fleur._ George felt his blood grow cold at the thought.

 _They’re just friends. She has made that perfectly clear. And Ron’s not interested like that_. He thought back fiercely. The voice stayed quiet but didn’t go away completely. He pushed the thoughts away and after a sloppy steaming spell to get the creases out of his shirt, he re-joined the party.

“George! There you are. Could you get the wine out the fridge for our guest, please?” Molly said. It definitely was an order phrased as a question. Angelina shot him an apologetic look, but he’d been expecting it. “Do sit down, you two,” Molly gestured to the squashy and unusually clean armchairs.

In fact as he looked around, George noticed that the Burrow was suspiciously spotless. Not at the level of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but definitely a dramatic change. The shoes on the porch had disappeared, the cushions were perfectly central, the dinner table already set with the finest crockery the Weasley’s owned. The radio was on quietly in the background creating a relaxed ambiance. He grabbed the wine and four glasses, placing it all down on the coffee table.

“- and Ginny will be back from training at her friend’s house soon, then Arthur and Percy should be finishing work right about now.” Molly continued, pouring out the wine for them all and offering the first glass to Angelina.

“Thank you, Molly. You have a lovely home.” Angelina commented.

Fred grinned, sinking back into the cushions. George could almost hear his twin keeping note of the points his girlfriend was scoring. Fred had prepped her well in the art of impressing Molly Weasley for this evening.

Some time later, after the group migrated to the dining table, the fireplace crackled into life and Ginny stepped out. She was a sweaty mess of red hair, clutching her broom in one hand and wiping her forehead with the other.

“Hey, Angelina!” She called over before trampling up the stairs to her room. Before her bedroom door had fully swung shut, the fireplace _wooshed_ again, revealing Arthur and Percy.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s like King’s Cross in September,” George heard his mum mutter as she went over to kiss her husband on the cheek. No doubt reminding him to be on his best muggle-obsession-free behaviour during the evening. Angelina’s arm moved under the table. George didn’t need to look to know that she was gripping Fred’s hand tightly as she became surrounded by Weasleys.

“Don’t worry Angie, you’ve got this.” Fred murmured under his breath.

George looked down at his empty bowl of soup. A lump lodged itself in his throat for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on.

Arthur shuffled over, beaming at Fred and Angelina. “Hello dear! I’m Mr Weasley, but please call me Arthur. It’s lovely to meet you at last.” Angelina stood and shook his hand, smiling warmly back.

“Hello, Arthur. And hello again, Percy.” She said as Percy drew out the chair next to George and shook her hand too before sitting down. His glasses were askew and there was Floo powder on his collar but he retained his usual pompous manner.

George grinned at Fred over his glass of wine, loving how Percy hadn’t noticed how rumpled he looked. Angelina nodded sagely and feigned interest in Percy’s talk of the Ministry and how busy a day it had been at the office. Fred pretended to snore lightly.

While their mum put the finishing touches to the main course, Fred started the game he and George had devised when they were little; see how many yawns you could get away with while Percy spoke. The bigger, more dramatic and drawn out yawns earned you more points. You lost if the self-involved berk took notice and interrupted his monologue. Ginny joined them just before supper was served and beat both her older brothers. She nearly fell off her chair by stretching her arms so exaggeratedly, but passed it off to a disgruntled Percy as being shattered from a day of quidditch practice. Angelina tried hard not to laugh, faking a cough. Percy continued, unbothered.

Dinner went smoothly at first. Arthur asking questions about Angelina’s muggle grandparents with great interest and Ginny chatting about her day of practicing with some Ravenclaws in her year. George listened, curious, as she explained how the houses had united under the Carrows, to get revenge on their teachers. When the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff quidditch teams had been unjustly banned, the Ravenclaws trained with them and they formed merged teams in order to defy the twins.

Ginny kept her scars hidden from her parents, but George saw the thin and deep marks on her arms.

Angelina didn’t even flinch when Percy burst into a pile of feathers and emerged as a bespectacled, technicoloured parrot to hoots of laughter from George and Ginny. Their mother was absolutely _furious_ but the scene was slightly undermined by Arthur inhaling one of Percy’s many, many feathers and choking/laughing too hard to act disapproving. But even Molly’s lip was twitching slightly when Percy began to preen his colourful coat from atop his chair.

“Hot pink and yellow suit you, Perce!” Fred cackled as Angelina wiped tears of mirth away from her eyes.

“Yeah, you should wear them more often!” George could barely get the words out. _The new range of dinner party sweets will definitely be a hit,_ he thought positively.

Percy squawked indignantly.

George reached across the table to drop the other end of the chew onto Percy’s empty plate, still chuckling. Parrot-Percy pecked at it and appeared back in human form in his seat at the table, pulling feathers from his hair.

“You two are paying for my therapy.” He said, raising his nose into the air. That set Fred off again, and Angelina snorted into her glass. Ginny thumped her on the back – the three of them completely hopeless. Percy did crack a good natured smile when he thought his brothers weren’t looking.

“Yes well, I think we’ve had enough _entertainment_ for one evening from you boys.” Molly said, collecting the empty dishes and plates with her wand. “Are you alright, Percy?” She asked kindly, even though her jaw was wobbling from a restrained smile.

“Yes, mother. Thank you, I’m fine – and I don’t want to inflate their considerable egos,” he said, straightening his tie, “but that was a bloody good bit of magic, if I do say so myself.”

Fred went quiet, staring at his older brother with his mouth open.

“Was that a _compliment_ , Perce?”

“Next time, don’t change me back without letting me have a go at flying.” Percy’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

Fred and George glanced at each other, speechless.

“Thank you for dinner, Molly, that was wonderful.” Angelina turned to Mrs Weasley, bringing the conversation back to normal. Fred rested his arm across her shoulders, scooting closer to her.

Molly blushed. “Oh, it was nothing dear – would you like some pudding? I made apple pie.” Clean plates appeared in front of them all, followed by an enormous domed pie with a thick crust and jugs of custard.

George noticed his dad’s eyes widen in delight. Their mum really was spoiling them tonight, in an effort to impress Angelina. He could tell his parents liked her already.

He was in nothing short of a full on food-coma once they finally finished their third helpings of pie.

“Oh, it’s raining. I hoped we could sit outside before the sunset.” Molly mused quietly, wiping her hands on her napkin.

George looked out the wide windows to see a grey blanket of threatening clouds. It was getting unusually chilly already. The weather had broken, the humidity from the day had subsided and the rain started to fall heavily.

They moved to the living room’s sofas and chairs, Ginny curled up at George’s feet to make space for everyone. Arthur looked ready to fall asleep in the armchair until Molly flicked him gently on the head with her tea towel. Fred pulled Angelina onto the sofa next to him, keeping her close. She had relaxed a lot throughout dinner, but now George thought she had an expression like she was about to face an interrogation.

George closed his eyes, content and well fed. With so many siblings, he was used to letting the sounds of chat and interweaving conversations wash over him. Growing up, it was the perfect time to whisper quietly with Fred and come up with their next prank under the cover of all those voices. Full, sleepy and at peace, George didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep in the chair until something poked his arm.

“Oi, wake up.” Ginny hissed at him.

George blearily opened his eyes. The candles were lit now, the last of the daylight was long gone.

“Oops.” He said, yawning.

“You looked exhausted so Mum let you sleep. But she was not impressed with you nodding off in front of Angelina.” Ginny explained, grinning. “Fred’s taken her home.”

“Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to pass out – how did it go?” George sat up, smacking his lips from his dry mouth. He hoped he hadn’t snored too much. Every other seat was empty.

“They absolutely love her, of course. Fred looked so excited.” She smiled, “it’s nice to see him so happy after – after everything.”

George ruffled Ginny’s hair affectionately, receiving a slap on his remaining ear for his crime. “Don’t go getting mushy on me, sis.”

She rolled her eyes and got to her feet. “Percy, Mum and Dad have gone to bed. Are you staying over?”

George shook his head. “Nope. Better get back, then. Opening bright and early at eight tomorrow.”

Ginny beamed. “Oh yeah! The great re-opening! I’ll come by as soon as I can. Might go to Grimmauld and see the others afterwards. It’s so much quieter without all you lot round every day.” She smiled a little sadly.

The last time the Burrow had been so empty was the year before Ginny went to Hogwarts. It was jarring to think of how quiet the house was now, without the play-fighting, arguing, shouting and hustle of all the Weasley siblings.

George stood, grabbed his wand and gave his sister a strong hug. He put a lot of things he didn’t need to say out loud into it.

“See you tomorrow, Gin.”

“Bye, Georgie.” She kissed him on the cheek and headed up the stairs to the bathroom.

George yawned again, eager for his own bed. The fireplace crackled and he was gone.

***

“Thank you, madam! We’ll be open tomorrow, spread the word!” Fred said to the tall witch, her arms full of products. Their last customer stepped over the threshold and Fred closed the door firmly after her. He turned the sign to ‘CLOSED’ and leant against it.

George lent his forearms on the cashier desk and put his forehead against his arms.

Neither brother said anything. Fred slipped down with his back against the door, ending up sat with his knees raised. He breathed in deeply.

“We bloody did it.” Fred said.

“Mm-hmm.” George replied. He didn’t have any energy left to form words.

“I don’t think I can move.”

“Mm-mm.” George agreed.

Blissful, beautiful silence.

“Hungry?” Fred asked.

“Mmmmm!”

George looked up to see Fred point his wand to the back office lazily. “ _Accio_ sandwiches.”

Two brown paper bags soared across the office into Fred’s hands. He threw one at George who fumbled a catch. George tore it open and bit into the bread, starving. They’d been rushed off their feet all day, with barely enough time to nip to the toilet. There hadn’t been time for lunch.

Verity shuffled down the stairs from the floor above, her hair falling out of her bun.

“I’ve restocked upstairs, Mr Weasley and Mr Weasley, can I go now?”

Fred swallowed his mouthful and stood up. “Of course, thank you for your help today. See you tomorrow, Verity.” He moved out of the way so their assistant could remove her apron and hang it on the back of the door. She waved goodbye and hurried off down the street. George devoured the rest of his sandwich and Fred went to close the door again.

“Wait – hold on!” Someone shouted behind him.

Fred groaned. “We’re closed!” He and George shouted at the same time.

Ron stuck his head through the gap before Fred could slam the door on him. “Oh alright then, I guess we’ll bugger off.”

Fred opened the door fully. “Hurry up and get in before someone sees,” he said, looking over the top of Ron’s head to check for vulture-like customers.

Harry and – George’s stomach felt like it did a backflip - Hermione followed behind Ron, looking around in amazement.

“Ginny said this place looked great!” Ron already had his hand in the bucket of kid’s toys, pulling out a rubber wand.

“Get your grubby hands off our wares, you prick, unless you want to cough up three galleons.” Fred warned him. Ron sheepishly dropped the wand.

“Sorry we didn’t come earlier, we lost track of time.” Harry said, eyeing the massive fireworks display.

George shrugged. “We wouldn’t have been able to chat, we barely stopped for breath all day.”

Hermione looked at him. She wore a cream long sleeved top with dark blue jeans and her hair was in a loose plait down her back. “Today was a success then?”

Fred untied his apron and pulled it over his head. “I’ll say. Think we made about the same today as we did the entire last week we were open before Easter. Including owl orders.”

Ron whistled appreciatively. Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, impressed.

“How’s it going at the house?” George asked. The other three looked pretty tired too, from moving all the furniture and sorting through the rooms at Grimmauld Place for the past week. He hadn’t found the time to go over and see the new and improved house, and honestly? From what he remembered of it, he wasn’t keen to go back. George absentmindedly rubbed his index finger, which still bore tiny scars from Doxy bites during the great cleaning spree of ’95.

“It looks great!” Ron said enthusiastically, “we removed as much of the Slytherin tat as we could, but those permeant sticking charms are being a right pain in the –“

“We’re all moved in,” Hermione interrupted, “Harry found some new chairs and a couple of desks in a muggle market. That’s why we’re in the area. And I got a new rug and some paintings, so it looks far more cheerful.” She opened her tiny beaded bag and pulled out a huge painting in a gold frame. It was an oil painting of the beach, with boats dotted on the horizon.

“Shame about the house elf heads,” Ron muttered, “those did not want to come off the wall. They’re so creepy.”

Harry laughed. “We’ll get them off eventually. Guess I’ll put them – and delightful Mrs Black – in storage. Maybe she’ll be happier if she’s screaming into the Black family vault at Gringotts.”

George remembered the piercing shrieks coming from the painting on the second floor, and shuddered.

Fred’s stomach rumbled thunderously. Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

“Did you two eat at all today?”

George closed the register and hung up his apron on the hook next to Verity’s. “Only just now. We didn’t have much time earlier. We were gonna get takeaway, if you wanted to join? Nothing fancy.”

Harry looked at the other two. “Apart from leftovers, we don’t have anything at home.”

Ron sat himself on the edge of the cashier desk. George pushed him off. “Sure,” Ron said, “sounds good.” He grinned at Harry, a dreamy expression on his face. “ _Home_. I love the sound of that.”

This was how George found himself half an hour later, sat on the office floor with his brothers and friends, resting against the filing cabinet, eating pizza and drinking butterbeers.

Fred and Ron scoffed their pizzas within minutes. Fred burped loudly, grinning proudly at them all. Hermione tutted, only two slices into her own Hawaiian firecracker.

“Can’t think of a much better way to celebrate our success,” Fred said, patting his full stomach.

George took in the scene. Harry and Hermione were talking quietly, Ron was aiming his crusts at Fred’s face who was deflecting them with his wand. One got stuck on the ceiling. They stopped after that.

“We were thinking of having a housewarming party at the end of the week. When Bill and Fleur are free. You two should come, if you’re not too busy here.” Harry said, polishing off his last bite.

“What day?” Fred asked, collecting the empty boxes.

“Saturday evening. Shacklebolt wants to post Aurors outside the house to be safe. It’ll only be a small thing.” Harry said, clearly annoyed. Hermione looked like she wanted to agree with Kingsley’s suggestion, but didn’t say anything. Ron gave her a warning look. George guessed it was an argument they’d had many times already.

“Yeah sure, we’ll be there after closing. Can Angelina come?” Fred asked, uncorking another bottle.

“’Course she can – oh, how did the dinner go yesterday?” Harry asked.

Fred smiled widely, “Mum absolutely loves her. So does Dad. Couldn’t have gone better.”

George looked at the floor. He felt Hermione’s eyes on him. He didn’t meet them.

It was late now. Fred and George saw the trio out of the shop, waving goodbye. George risked a look at Hermione and saw her brown eyes focused on him, her expression torn. The door closed and there was a _crack_ as the group disapparated outside.

“You need to talk to her.”

George turned around. Fred was already striding up the stairs towards the door to their flat.

“What? What do you mean?” George asked sharply, walking quickly to keep up with him.

“You need to talk to her.” Fred repeated, twisting on the spot to look at him. Fred looked uncharacteristically serious. And knowing. “I’m serious. It’s been _years_ , George.”

He frowned, struggling to understand. Refusing to. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, stubbornly.

“Yes you bloody well do. You’ve never talked to me about it. But you haven’t needed to – I’ve been watching you for ages.” Fred sounded calm, but George’s thoughts were in chaos.

_But I’ve been so careful. Always so careful._

“Give Ron time. He won’t see it coming, but give it time. Give them all time. I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Fred said, still searching George’s face intensely, “but they’ll come around. I won’t say anything.”

Fred unlocked the door to the flat and went in. George’s legs had turned to stone on the staircase. He swayed on the spot, from the butterbeers but also from the sense that the ground had been removed from under him. _Shit._


	10. Yule & Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments!
> 
> If you're in to listening to music that features in the story, get Don't Stop Me Now by Queen ready for the latter half of the second memory. How do you feel about music chapters? Let me know.

**Grimmauld Place, December 21 1995**

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Merry Christmas!_

_I’m so sorry to leave it this late, but I’m just so busy with schoolwork that I really think I should stay at Hogwarts and get on top of it all. We’ve started on animal transfiguration this term, which is heinously tricky, and I want to stay at school over the holiday and keep working. The OWLs aren’t far away, and I want to do you both proud. Sorry again._

_Have a fantastic time skiing! Tell me all about it when you get back._

_Miss and love you both lots,_

_Hermione._

***

She’d given up on the idea of a skiing holiday with her parents long ago; she wasn’t coordinated enough to get any enjoyment out of it. So, when Dumbledore had summoned Hermione to his office yesterday morning and solemnly explained that Harry had had a vision of Arthur Weasley being attacked by a giant snake prove true, she hadn’t battled with her conscience for long. She sent a rushed letter to her parents saying she was sorry, but she needed to stay and revise at Hogwarts over the Christmas break.

They didn’t need to know any more than that.

She’d missed the Hogwarts Express, so her whole journey down on the stomach-churning Knight Bus to London was spent worrying about her best friends and trying to suppress the terror she felt. Harry had been acting so strangely recently, his occlumency lessons with Snape not going well at all. She was sure he would be in one of his foul, erratic moods when she got there. He’d be blaming himself as usual. And Ron – well, Dumbledore had spoken about the attack in a grave, serious voice. She hoped to any and all the Gods listening that Mr Weasley would be ok.

The bus sped on, jumping from the snow-capped mountains of Scotland to heaving cities plastered in Christmas fairy lights, to icy country lanes surrounded by fields. Each movement sent a wave of increasing nausea through her. Hermione couldn’t wait to learn to apparate and never take this bus again.

She’d brushed the snow off her scarf and been bustled in to the dark London house by Mrs Weasley, who pulled her into a fierce hug. The doorbell had caused the portrait of Walburga Black to howl and curse Hermione’s bloodline from above.

“How is he?” Hermione had asked immediately.

“He’ll live, dear, thank Merlin. They’re working on him now. It was so lucky – if Harry hadn’t seen...” Mrs Weasley had trailed off, dabbing her eyes with an already sodden hanky. Hermione hugged her again. She didn’t need to finish.

Hearing her arrive, thanks to the shrieks of Mrs Black, Ron ran down the stairs and hugged her too. She had gripped him back tightly. Hugs conveyed an awful lot, if you held on long enough. She’d noticed over the years that she didn’t hug Ron as often as she hugged Harry, their friendship was more turbulent and likely to splinter. But she still loved him – not in the way that she was certain Mrs Weasley suspected though.

“I’m so glad to see you," Ron said in a gruff voice, breaking apart and looking drained. “Harry won’t come out of Buckbeak’s room. He won’t even look at any of us – I don’t know what to do.” None of the Weasleys so far looked like they’d had any sleep.

“We’ll see about that,” Hermione shook off her damp coat, hung it on the back of a nearby chair and marched up the stairs. “Get Ginny and wait in your room. I’ll talk to him.”

And she had. As expected, Harry had twisted what happened into his own fault, convinced he’d been possessed by Voldemort and attacked Mr Weasley himself. Hermione knew he needed to hear from someone who actually _had_ been possessed that he was talking rubbish. As wonderful and brave as Harry was, he could be awfully thick sometimes.

Ginny closed Ron’s bedroom door behind her, leaving the boys alone to talk.

“It was good of you to get here so fast. He wouldn’t talk to any of us,” the younger girl said to Hermione, walking with her down past their shared bedroom on the lower floor. Dark circles accentuated her tired eyes.

Hermione smiled at her as they approached the kitchen and the wafting smells of dinner. She was starving, having not eaten all day. “Skiing was never going to be my thing,” she put her arms round Ginny’s shoulders, squeezing. “I’m so glad your dad’s ok.”

Sirius was in the kitchen, whistling cheerfully and helping Molly make a vat of casserole for everyone. The room was more warm and inviting than the rest of the house, mouth watering scents of roasted onion and red wine coming from the stove. He raised a hand in greeting as the girls came in.

“Hello, Hermione. Merry Christmas! You hungry? Cup of tea?” Sirius asked. She noted that he still looked gaunt and malnourished – not as ill as he had looked when she’d first met him, but his skin now was an unhealthy shade of porcelain from being trapped inside the house all day every day. He looked like a paper thin ghost despite the colour of his jolly red Christmas jumper.

She smiled back. “Merry Christmas, Sirius. I’d love some tea, thanks.” She sat down at the ancient dining table.

They were halfway through their second cups when a loud _crack_ cut through the quiet evening chatter. Mrs Weasley shrieked and dropped her wooden spoon in the dish.

“BOYS! What have I told you about apparating in this house!” She bellowed at the apologetic looking Fred and George. Hermione tried not to smile, catching Ginny’s eye and quickly looking away before she broke. Some thing never changed.

Fred sat in the empty chair to Hermione’s right and George sat opposite, opening a pack of cards.

“Hey, Granger. Should have known you’d turn up sooner or later.” Fred said, dishing out the pack equally for all four of them. Sirius started whistling ‘God rest ye, Merry hippogriffs’ again.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, taking her cards. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re the glue –“

“ - the third musketeer, if you will –“ George chimed in.

“ – that binds your little trio together,” Fred said.

“Can’t see one of you without the other two not far behind,” George agreed, smirking.

“And here you are.” Fred finished, beginning a game of exploding snap. Ginny stifled a giggle behind her hand. Hermione sighed and saw George shoot her a cheeky grin. She smiled hesitantly back, a pang of nerves unexpectedly settling in her stomach.

The last time she’d really spoken to the twins had been when she was recruiting them to sign up for the DA. Not that they’d taken much convincing. They were seventh years now – and although they were always in Gryffindor common room, they never seemed to be studying as much as the rest of their year group. They poured over parchments and flipcharts, whispering doggedly and keeping away from the other students. They’d retreated from the limelight a lot this term and it was, frankly, weird. Hermione expected them to be dropping dungbombs in the hallways and making nuisances of themselves but they just hadn’t. She’d reprimanded them for targeting first years with those awful sweets that caused various levels of sickness, but that had been almost the full extent of their conversation all term.

She watched the twins play in their quidditch matches, of course, although she spent most of the recent game hiding behind her fingers as Ron panicked and messed up repeatedly in goal. She was there to support her friends – before they’d gotten themselves stupidly banned from future games by attacking Malfoy. But ok, maybe she’d been distracted (no more than once or twice) by the older pair’s athleticism. For years, Harry had badgered her with the idea that quidditch was an art form, not just a sport. Maybe she was finally coming round to the idea; she could see what he meant now. The way Fred and George worked so well together, wordlessly and efficiently defending their teammates. Sometimes it looked like they were dancing around the other players.

And yes, maybe she’d caught herself admiring how strong you had to be to beat a determined bludger from one end of the pitch to the other. How much stamina a four hour game in relentless gale-force winds needed. How much effort had to be put into that arching swing of the bat. How muscular his arms looked when the light caught on his kit sleeve, and how toned he’d become after years of playing for the team.

 _He?_ A quiet voice piped up, sounding amused. Hermione jumped, startled. She awkwardly looked up to see the _he_ in question already looking at her. Warm hazel eyes with a curious and mischievous tint bore into her own.

 _Has he always had those freckles_? The voice questioned, speaking softly at the back of her mind. Adrenaline spiked through her heart, locking her tongue in knots.

Hermione blinked repeatedly and focused on her cards, heat rising to the back of her neck. Why did she care about George Weasley’s smattering of freckles? Something twisted in her chest and she found it more difficult to breathe, the image of a red haired beater racing across the sky pinned to the back of her eyelids.

She didn’t look directly up at him again for the rest of the game.

She didn’t know it at the time but from then on, every time she saw that smile, sparks would hum in her bloodstream whether she noticed it or not.

***

It was the right decision in the end, to stay at Grimmauld Place for Christmas. Sirius was so pleased to have company that he made every attempt possible to cheer the place up, and remained in an infectiously good mood. Mr Weasley was recovering quickly and was set to be discharged by Christmas Eve, joining them for the big day. You couldn’t move around the house without bumping into decorative snowflakes, Christmas trees bursting with tinsel or festive red hats on the paintings in every room. Sirius had even put hats and reindeer antlers on the mounted house elf heads, to everyone’s great amusement except Hermione and Mrs Weasley’s.

Harry came out of his shell too, gradually relaxing around them all more and enjoying himself properly. With a jolt she realised that this was his first proper family Christmas, celebrating it with his godfather. She decided the horrific Dursleys didn’t count.

A couple of days after she arrived, Hermione found herself curled up in an armchair in a living room on the second floor. She hadn’t lied to her parents entirely – she really did need to keep up with her studies and wanted to have a couple of hours to herself. As much as she loved the Weasleys and Harry, it was always quite loud. As an only child she had grown up in a much quieter, smaller household so it was often overwhelming to jump from that calm to the chaotic summers at the Burrow, or a full on Christmas like this one.

She had the charms textbook right up to her eyes, reading intently about unspoken enchantments. They weren’t due to start wordless charms until next year but she found them fascinating. She didn’t hear the door creak open.

“- No, I reckon Zonko will sell up in the next year, the bloke’s ancient and must be retiring soon. He hasn’t got kids either, so I doubt anyone’s prepared to take it over.” Said a low voice on the landing, footfalls padding up the stairs towards the room. Hermione recognised it as Fred’s, talking in a quiet, urgent tone.

“But we can’t afford that as well as the Diagon plot, not at first. The only rushes in Hogsmeade would be for school weekends, and they’re only once a month.” That was George.

Hermione lowered her book slowly, not sure whether to make herself known. It sounded like a conversation the twins wanted to have in private. But they had chosen to have it on a landing, with a door open ajar behind them...

“And summer. And Easter, and Christmas – and people do live there, George.”

“Yeah, I know that! I just think that would be too much in one go. Besides, we barely have enough to get one place open, let alone two. You’re getting ahead of yourself, Freddie. We have to live somewhere as well.” George whispered back.

_What on earth are they talking about?_

Fred sighed. “Ok, you have a point. But if Zonko closes up, we need to get in there quick-“

Hermione went to put the book down on the table beside her but fumbled it, and it dropped to the floor with a solid _thump_. She winced.

The door to the room was suddenly pushed open, and Fred stood with his wand pointed inside at her.

“Merlin, Granger, I thought you were a ghoul! Or Kreacher snooping around.” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and dropped his arm when he saw it was just her. They both looked relieved.

“Sorry,” she nibbled on her lip, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was here first though.” She gestured to the books beside her and Fred chuckled. He and George came inside and shut the door, looking shiftily at each other.

“Out of interest, how much of that did you hear?” George fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt awkwardly, avoiding her gaze.

“Enough,” Hermione replied honestly, “but I didn’t understand it.”

Fred and George seemed to communicate though slight movements of their heads to each other, having a silent conversation before Fred looked back at her. “You’re a smart one, Granger, it wouldn’t take much for you to work it out.” He flopped on the velvet green sofa opposite her, stretching his arms above his head and looking defeated. “But we want to keep things under wraps for now. So, if we just told you that we had big plans for after school, would you leave it at that?”

This didn’t sit well with her, considering how often she heard clattering and banging in the twin’s room over the summer. It wasn’t unusual for different colours of smoke to seep underneath the door to their bedroom. She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but George looked up at her, his eyes searching her face.

“We’re not ready to tell everyone yet; we still have a long way to go. We wouldn’t want to upset people at Christmas, now, would we?” George asked, sitting down next to his brother. The sincerity and plead in his voice was clear – they were asking her to keep what she’d heard to herself. To not tell Ron, Harry... and she surmised particularly not to tell their mother.

Honestly she didn’t know what she could say, given that she didn’t follow what they’d meant when they talked about Zonko’s. But George kept his dark eyes on hers, and a lump lodged itself thickly in her throat. This meant something to him. To them both.

Hermione nodded slowly. “I won’t say anything.”

Fred grinned at her, his confident manner returning now she’d agreed to keep their mysterious secret.

“Excellent,” He rubbed his hands together and stood up, heading for the door, “we’ll leave you to it.” He tapped his nose with his finger and winked at her. George smiled gently at her and left the room after his brother. She watched their copper hair disappear down the staircase, frowning lightly.

As she returned to her book, something told her that next term would be a riotous one.

***

Christmas Day at Grimmauld Place was vibrant and unusual, the bright colours of the festive wrapping paper and knitted Christmas jumpers in sharp contrast to the muted greens and greys of the Black family home. In the spirit of goodwill, Hermione tried to gift Kreacher a new blanket for his messy den, but the wizened house elf spluttered with indignation and curses, until Ron nearly drop-kicked him over the bannister. Her other presents went down much better with everyone else.

Mr Weasley sat at the head of the table for Christmas dinner, battered and bruised but smiling happily at everyone through his blackened eye and swollen lips. Hermione helped herself to more roast potatoes and a second helping of sausages, and ducked when the bewitched elf soared too close overhead on its miniature broomstick. Fred gladly took credit for that at first, but hastily undid the spell towards the end of the meal, when the elf whizzed right past his mother and caused her to drop and smash the gravy jug.

Sirius, Ginny, Ron, Harry, Hermione and George tactfully snuck out the dining room as fast as they could, Mrs Weasley’s shouts at Fred ringing loudly through the corridor. They hid round the corner, laughing so hard that Ron ended up doubled over and Ginny slid down the wall onto the floor with tears in her eyes. It was collectively agreed to give the dining room some space while Fred grovelled, and Sirius led the way to a parlour room on the first floor that was covered in tinsel and yellow fairy lights.

They spread out, Ron and George taking one end of a long serpentine sofa, Harry and Sirius opting for two plushy armchairs by the black fireplace. Hermione sank into the far end of the curved sofa, pulling her knees up under her chin. Ginny stayed on her feet and walked slowly round the room, looking closely at the portraits on the walls. A long, ancient tapestry draped from floor to ceiling against one side of the room, embellished with the Slytherin crest.

“I’ll get that damn elf to bring us some food while Molly – err – has a break,” Sirius said, snapping his fingers and summoning Kreacher.

“Master called?” The elf appeared, wringing his hands and grumbling quietly, “Master dares to insult the Black family name, an affront to the most ancient, most noble-“

“Shut UP, Kreacher.” Sirius and Ron said together. The elf glared at them both, his droopy nose almost touching the floor as he bowed low, muttering under his breath.

“Make yourself useful and bring out the leftovers. And butterbeers.” Sirius barked at Kreacher. Hermione glowered at him; she never liked how Sirius treated his house elf. Kreacher disapparated with a resounding _crack_ , reappearing minutes later with plates of cold meats, roast potatoes and pigs in blankets. The boys tucked in to their third helpings gratefully, but Hermione was absolutely full.

Sirius passed her an uncorked butterbeer, grinning at her. They spent the next hour playing more games of exploding snap, and Sirius encouraged George and Harry to use his family tapestry as a dartboard for paper airplanes. The inhabitants of the family tree scarpered with their arms over their heads to the far corners of the cloth, to Sirius’ great pleasure.

She excused herself during the game in order to find the nearest bathroom. Hermione hated going anywhere alone in the house because the portraits had been known to call out and insult her as she passed. _They can’t hurt you_ , she whispered to herself, casting a _lumos_ just to be on the safe side as she walked through the winding hallways. She found the ornate lavatory on the third floor, ignoring the hisses from the ancient Black ancestors. The word ‘mudblood’ had no effect on her anymore.

She went back to the living room, listening for the shouts of laughter and hum of chatter to lead her. As she approached the door it opened, and George stepped out into the hall. He stopped when he saw her, smiling.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” she replied, “did you win?”

He nodded. “Got old Arcturus Black the Third right in the nose. Sirius is having a great time,” he smiled wider, his freckles stretching across his cheeks.

She giggled, then looked over the bannister to the kitchen below. The hall was quiet now. “Do you think Fred’s ok?”

George let out a short, deep laugh. “She wouldn’t kill him on Christmas,” he paused, “I think.”

She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. _Honestly, those two._

George went to step round her, moving out of the way so she could get to the door but suddenly his manner changed, becoming stiff and awkward. His eyes widened for a split second, then he stared at the ground. He rubbed the back of his neck and backed off towards the staircase.

The quick change in his attitude completely caught her off guard. Her stomach dropped like a lead weight. _What did I do?_

“I, uh, better go check on them.” George mumbled, hurrying down the stairs without a backward glance.

Hermione raised her hand – to reach for him? She had no idea. Her hand dropped to her side. She stepped towards the door but before she re-joined the rowdy group on the other side, she looked over shoulder. She looked up.

A single sprig of mistletoe hovered above the doorway, held up by magic and rotating gently.

_Oh._

***

**Hogwarts, April 1 1996**

The mood in Gryffindor common room could only be described as bleak.

Hermione sat cross legged in her favourite armchair by the window, watching the storm lash against the pane and raindrops race down towards the sill. Her OWL textbooks surrounded her, penning her in and taunting her as she hunched over the open pages. The other students gave her a wide berth – Harry was in detention _again_ , and she hadn’t a clue where Ron was. The exams were only six weeks away and she’d already started having nightmares of Dumbledore throwing her out of school.

Her head slipped from her hand and her neck jerked up. She snapped out of her daydream, cursing herself for wasting valuable time. The mountains of homework piling up on the fifth years and the long DA meetings ate into her precious revision timetable.

But Hermione’s usual thirst and motivation to study was lacking. As important as she knew the exams were, there was nothing to look forward to anymore. Not since that _hag_ of a woman had ruined quidditch, classes, even Hogsmeade trips. Hatred coursed through her veins, pure and unfiltered towards Umbridge and her sickening dictatorship. Hermione accidentally snapped her quill as she was consumed by her thoughts, pushing down too hard on her arithmancy notes and puncturing the parchment.

This very, very nearly made her cry. Tears formed, frustrated and stinging, in her eyes but Hermione repaired her quill and diligently worked her way through the final chapter. Transfiguration was next. Then herbology, then ancient runes, then charms...

She had to stay on schedule. The little voice in her head urged her to be the best.

The portrait swung open and a gaggle of seventh years entered, likely returning from a study session in the library. They clutched their books and revision notes, talking in low and stressed voices. Hermione recognised Alicia Spinnett and Katie Bell in their midst. She raised her hand in greeting but the older girls didn’t see her. Hermione lowered it back down, brushing her hair from her eyes instead.

 _Concentrate_.

“Don’t think you’ve got enough books there, Granger.”

She looked up to see Fred and George stood shoulder to shoulder in front of her. She didn’t have time for this. She ignored them.

“Well now, that’s a bit rude.” Fred flopped into the arm chair opposite her. George sat on one end of the maroon sofa with his legs spread out regally on the cushions. He threw grapes up into the air, catching them in his mouth.

“Go away.” Hermione said without looking up.

Fred put a hand over his heart, “I’m hurt!” he said, “it’s our big day and you haven’t even wished us a happy birthday! I’m wounded! And now you ask us to leave?”

“So rude.” George agreed in the same mocking tone. Hermione put down her quill in resignation.

“I don’t need to wish you a happy birthday again because you got the whole of Gryffindor to sing it for you at breakfast. And lunch. And you’ll do it again at dinner,” she said flatly.

The twins grinned at each other. “Damn right we will,” George smirked before he flung the last grape high above him and caught it smoothly in his open mouth.

Inexplicably, she found herself staring at the tight line of his lips. George raised an eyebrow at her. She hastily looked back out the window. Thick black clouds rolled over the Highland landscape, dousing the lake and grounds in a late afternoon darkness. The storm rumbled on the horizon.

Hermione returned her attention back to her books, unamused.

“Anyway, we just wanted to see if you’d still be here after dinner. We’d recommend not locking yourself away in the library tonight. You won’t want to miss the show.” Fred drawled, putting his feet up on the table coffee table, exuding confidence. 

“What? Why? What are you two planning?” She asked sharply.

George flicked the grape stem into the roaring fireplace. “You’ll see. We won’t spoil it – just be here for nine, ok?” He smiled at her, but it was a less sure one than Fred’s. George’s features were a fraction softer, his eyes showing slightly more caution than his brother’s. After being around them for so long, Hermione found it easy to tell the difference between them.

“I will put both of you in detention if you go near another first year with those disgusting sweets of yours. Don’t think that I won’t,” she seethed, glaring at them. Neither Fred nor George looked phased by her threat. Their treatment of younger students had been a thorn in her side as a prefect all year; she’d confiscated as many of their creations as she could (no thanks to Ronald’s help).

“Relax, Granger, nobody’s getting hurt. You’ll like it – promise.” Fred said as they high-fived each other. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have some work to do. Nine o’clock. Be here.” Fred stood up, walking over to the boy’s staircase leaving George and Hermione alone.

George loosened his crooked tie and stood up too. He looked down at her, smiling, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me. You will actually like it.” He turned away, but before he moved out of earshot, Hermione called after him.

“Happy birthday.”

George smiled warmly at her over his shoulder, showing her that he’d heard. The twins disappeared up the stairs and conferring quietly. Hermione stayed in her chair, still feeling deeply uneasy.

***

Harry winced as he dipped his hand in the _essence of mertlap_ , but stretched it gratefully under the liquid. It had been a lifesaver for him all year. Hermione held her tongue, not wanting to start another argument about his attitude in Umbridge’s lessons. She took pity on him and pulled his History of Magic essay towards her, correcting some of the Goblin names he’d gotten completely wrong.

“Better?” Ron asked. He’d changed out of his kit but was still drenched from a dismal practice in the rain and looked thoroughly downcast. Although she didn’t usually care much for quidditch, it was agonising to watch the team fall apart now Harry, Fred _and_ George were banned. Gryffindor didn’t stand a chance in their next game unless a miracle happened. She’d walked in on Angelina crying in the girls toilets about it twice now.

Harry nodded, exhaling in relief. The marks on his hand was red raw, cracked and bleeding. The more Hermione looked at it the more furious she became. Anger seared through her blood as she stared at the words _‘I must not tell lies’_ etched painfully into Harry’s skin. Hermione tried to keep a hold of herself but in that moment she wanted nothing more than to make that woman _pay_ for what she’d done. For what she’d been doing all year.

“Bloody hell it’s gotten busy, hasn’t it?” Ron commented, looking round at the busy common room.

The tower had slowly been filling up with people over the last half hour, an excited babble and humming of voices buzzing in the background. Almost every single Gryffindor had heard the whispered news that something was going to happen that night.

As promised, the twins had conducted the final rendition of the Happy Birthday song at dinner, but had vanished immediately after finishing their meal. They’d been gone for hours and it made her incredibly anxious. The soothing patter of rain against the glass had also stopped, leaving her jumpy and tense as the atmosphere became electric with anticipation.

“I heard they’ve enchanted the statues to make them fly!” Hermione heard a small second year girl said to her wide eyed friend.

“I bet it’s to do with the giant squid.” Another fourth year boy said to Ginny who was standing a few feet away, “they’re your brothers – do you know what’s going on?”

Ginny snorted. “No, I’ve got no idea. They’ve been more secretive than ever. They wouldn’t tell me anything.” She leaned in closer, “I learned the hard way that that’s when they’re at their most dangerous,” she said ominously.

Ron shuffled in his chair nervously. “The gits didn’t tell me anything either,” he told Harry and Hermione, “if they get caught mum will blame it on me if they get expelled! She’ll say I should have stopped them, as a prefect.” He ran his fingers through his hair and moaned softly.

Harry cradled his right hand to his chest, glancing at Hermione for reassurance. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Ron, they’re not stupid. They won’t get caught - they don’t want to get expelled.”

But Hermione thought – although she didn’t say it out loud – that the twins didn’t really have anything more to lose. They didn’t have quidditch, they didn’t seem to care about their NEWTS, and they _really_ hated Umbridge. Apart from the DA... what more could be taken from them?

The old clock on the fireplace chimed nine times and the common room, now full of students from every year group, went quiet. A hush descended over them and Hermione reluctantly stopped writing.

They waited.

_WHOOOSH_

Bright purple and red fireworks streamed past the windows, erupting in showers of gold dust raining down from the sky. A cheer went up throughout the room, people pressed forwards to get a better look. Someone opened the huge glass windows wide, and the figures of Fred and George Weasley darted past on their brooms, throwing more sparklers and fireworks behind them.

They moved surprisingly gracefully through the air, twisting and turning in a choreographed way, leaving a trail of explosives spelling the words “Happy birthday to us, from us! FG & GF Weasley!” high in the sky. The words danced, glowing crimson against the charcoal night. A white phoenix born of fireworks flew up, up, up and exploded in an array of pinks and golds.

Great Catherine wheels twirled around the twins, and Hermione could hear their whooping and laughter as they dived and somersaulted all the way from her seat in the tower. She couldn’t help giggling with them. She had to admit it; she was impressed.

_He was right. I do like it._

The display continued, accompanied by a chorus of “oohs” and “aaahs” from the captivated audience. It really was a mesmerising sight, the mixtures of rainbow colours and huge shapes of mythical creatures animated for them all to enjoy. The Ravenclaws were probably able to see it from the top floor of their tower, too.

With a final powerful BANG, a striped blue firework exploded and spelled out “Fuck you, Umbridge!” in thirty foot letters to the wild amusement and celebration of the whole common room. She joined in the applause and cheered loudly for that one.

Unlike the birthday message to themselves, that phrase didn’t fade away – and five minutes later as the shadows of Fred and George drew closer to the window she heard them shout in unison “Weasleys Wizard Wheezes! Our Fortnight Frozen Fireworks will soon be on sale at number 93, Diagon Alley!”

Every Gryffindor was on their feet, whistling and shouting out to the twins. They glided through the open window with their arms punching the air, encouraging the cheers and basking in the applause. Fred and George touched down in the middle of the room and were immediately swarmed by their friends and housemates, patting them on the back and hugging them tightly. To anyone listening on the other side of the Fat Lady, it sounded like Gryffindor had won the House Cup again from the noise.

Fred produced what Hermione recognised as a litre bottle of firewhisky from his jacket pocket.

“Who’s ready to party?” He shouted to the room, grinning madly.

She watched Lee Jordan break off from the crowd and pull the cover off a muggle looking record player in the corner by the staircase. Above the heads of excited students she saw him lift the needle down onto an LP and poke his wand at it. Classic rock that Hermione recognised as one of her Dad’s favourite bands (Queen, maybe? She thought ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ was the title) blared out at an unnatural volume. Lee grinned at the twins, their plan obviously falling into place.

She was split between disapproval and intrigue. She desperately wanted to know how they’d bewitched the record player to work inside the school, as she knew that muggle technology was meant to go haywire within the grounds. Hermione rubbed her temple, assessing the scene. The rational side of her argued that she and Ron should really try to tame the manic crowd before someone got hurt – the first years looked tiny and were in danger of being crushed by the barrelling seventh years that towered over them.

She turned to speak to him, but Ron had moved over to stand with Seamus and Dean nearer his brothers, so as usual he’d be of no help. She turned to Harry, who was clapping gingerly against his bad hand.

“Let them have their moment. C’mon, Hermione, just for tonight.” Harry said, clearly knowing what she was thinking. She bit her lip and turned her attention back at the twins.

George caught her eye and something hot flashed under the surface of her cheeks. She gave him an imploring look, pointing at the younger students. He looked around the room and said something into Fred’s ear. Fred replied and George shook his head, mouthing quickly.

Fred rolled his eyes but called out, “This party is for fourth years and up! If you’re not a fourth year or older, bugger off or apparently you’ll get detention!”

“Sorry folks, we don’t make the rules.” George shouted. Hermione saw Ron sink lower beside Dean, trying to hide his prefect badge. She tutted.

A low groan and booing went up from the smaller students, although a few first and second years looked grateful to be excused and almost ran out the room. She didn’t have to weed out too many remaining third years, but Amber Roberts looked apoplectic with rage as Hermione chivvied her up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories. The common room cleared out, Lee turned up the music and Fred raised the firewhisky aloft again.

“Are you ready –“ He shouted.

“To party – “ George joined in.

“Like its 1996?!” They cried out together. The common room erupted in more screams and cheers of approval.

Hermione sighed and picked up her transfiguration revision, stuffing it back in her bag. Maybe she did deserve one night off.


	11. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the tag to include Graphic depictions of violence because of the start of this chapter- its not very graphic, but just a CW for blood here.

**Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, 13 June 1998**

The air splintered around him, crumbling rock and brick thrown forcefully by the explosive hit of a curse, and a thick red dust clogged his eyes and mouth. He was gasping, his head pounding and unable to think straight. He couldn’t hear properly through the tinnitus ringing through his good ear, and the hall twisted in his blurred vision. The axis of his sight was wonky and sickening.

The mangled body on the floor stared up at vacant ceiling. His own face, but not quite. It was Fred.

It was always Fred.

_No, please – not again,_

This was wrong, everything was wrong. George screamed, his insides rupturing into fragments and irreparably destroyed. He hadn’t been able to save him. _Again_.

He dropped to his knees and clawed at the bloodied chest of his twin, willing him back to life with every inch of his being.

With a crack of lightning, Fred was consumed by a shimmering gold orb of light. His head rolled back, his chest raising up towards the sky and George watched, unbreathing. The light faded and Fred’s eyes opened slowly, revealing blank white spheres that showed no expression. They turned on George, and he backed away in terror.

“How could you do this to us?” The creature with Fred’s face asked, twisting its head to stare unblinking at George. A gush of blood ran down the side of his head, and George’s body went cold.

“Do – do what?” George whispered.

This wasn’t him – this wasn’t his brother anymore. Fred’s face flickered, like a glitch, and for a split second it was Ron gazing at George with those unseeing, penetrating eyes. George blinked, rooted to the spot, and Ron’s sneering face jerked and snapped back instantly into Fred’s.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?” The Not-Fred sat up facing him, bellowing at George in a deep, demonic voice that had nothing of Fred left in it at all.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know!” George screamed, unable to look away from this nightmarish new Fred.

His legs couldn’t move, he couldn’t run away. George was stuck, fixed by the empty place where his twin’s eyes should be. A bleeding hand extended outwards towards George. He was backed against the far wall of the Great Hall and there was no way out.

“No, Fred, no! NO!”

The warped version of his dead brother dragged itself closer to him.

***

George sat bolt upright, his heart thumping so aggressively it felt like it would burst out of his chest. His back was drenched in a cold sweat that clung to him and he panted heavily, his face wet with tears. It took several agonising seconds for him to realise he was safe in his own bed in the flat. The curtains fluttered in the light breeze from the open window, causing shadows to creep across the floor. George’s thick red duvet was bundled up and half falling off the bottom of the bed – he must have kicked it off, thrashing and writhing during his dream.

He clamped a hand over his parched mouth, certain he’d called out into the dark room. He wiped his eyes, listening, but there was no sound from the other side of the wall. That was a relief. George hadn’t had a nightmare like that for a few weeks, and he really didn’t want Fred to see him like this; it would only make him worry.

George shuddered and scrunched his eyes up at the thought of the demonic white-eyed version of his twin. With his heartbeat gradually slowing down to normal, he groaned and resigned himself to the fact he wouldn’t be able to sleep in any longer. The old alarm clock on his bedside table read that it was only a quarter to six in the morning, and he could hear the faintest stirrings of birds on the roof above.

He tore off his pyjama top, tossing it into the wash basket in the corner of the room. He grabbed his towel from the radiator and padded quietly out of his bedroom towards the bathroom, but he paused outside Fred’s room. The door was already open a crack, and he pushed it gingerly open with his fingertips. The familiar snoring and rough outline of the bed in the dark was enough to reassure him that Fred was sound asleep, unaware of anything that had just happened. George breathed out shakily and pulled the door slowly shut. He crept down the corridor to take a shower, casting a _muffliato_ to dampen the sound and not wake his sleeping brother.

The warm water did wonders in soothing George’s body, washing away the physical remnants of his nightmare, but it couldn’t clean out his thoughts.

He hadn’t had that dream before – usually the horrific Fred in his dreams didn’t open his eyes, and just lay limp and unmoving in the rubble. And every morning after, George would wake, shaking, in a pool of sweat and feel as if a Dementor had tried to kiss him. He couldn’t decide which option was worse, but this new nightmare was far more confusing. Ron had never been involved before. George rested his forehead against the cold tiles, willing both echoes of the scene to disappear from his mind. He felt so completely drained.

He finished his shower, dried himself and walked softly back to his room to pull on a dark navy polo top and faded blue jeans.

_Just have a regular morning. Do your routine and get on with your day._

And so he did. George mechanically made a cup of tea and wolfed down some tasteless cereal as if on autopilot, and was about to settle into a chair in the living room when he realised he’d rather do anything than sit down and give his thoughts a chance to overrun. Too lazy to go back to his room, he quietly murmured “ _accio_ green hoodie,” and his favourite jumper came zipping down the hall towards him. George grabbed his keys from the table and stepped out the door and down the stairs to the front of the shop, locking the door behind him.

It was no surprise to see that Diagon Alley was deserted so early in the morning. He pulled the hoodie over his head and set off down the hill, with no destination in mind. A thin mist clung to the buildings, shrouding them in a grizzly grey as the rising sun fought to negotiate through the clouds. The air was chillier than he expected for mid-June but was good for his clearing his head, and George hugged himself tighter as he began walking through the empty streets past the sleepy shop fronts.

He had never really been one to enjoy long walks; that was more Charlie’s thing when they were growing up. He had joined his big brother on some interesting hikes across and around the valleys that surrounded the Burrow, trailing along behind and scuffing his boots on the rocks. Charlie was always on the hunt for weird and wonderful creatures and he’d turf Fred and George out of bed at the crack of dawn and drag them out for hours, on the hunt for a Kneazle den or something else bizarre. He’d stride ahead with his nose in a book, looking up excitedly at any snap of branches or movement in the bushes. The twins had preferred to try and break off and collect rabbit droppings or sneak a wasp’s nest back to the house (destined for Percy’s bedroom of course). They weren’t allowed out with Charlie much after that. But George smiled fondly to himself at the memories.

He’d looped round several of the nearby paths and cut-throughs by now, but he managed to steer clear of Knocturn Alley. Despite it being daylight, that dingy street gave him the creeps – even if he had wanted to sneak off and explore it as a kid. The last few years of the war had put him off the idea. George rounded the corner and recognised the smells of his favourite bakery down the way, causing his mouth to water hungrily despite having scoffed breakfast before he left.

He went to check his watch but, _dammit_ , he’d left it on his bedside table. He guessed that he’d only been out for half an hour or so, as the flats above the quiet shops were beginning to show the first signs of movements inside. The mist had eased off enough to see clearly from one end of the Alley to the other as George ambled back to the shop, and he let himself back in silently. He felt much calmer now, and pushed any thoughts about his nightmares aside and set to work. He didn’t mind if they opened the shop earlier than usual today.

It was a Saturday, and George had already made a handful of early morning sales by the time Fred hurried down the stairs and joined him at the desk a couple of hours later. He eyed George suspiciously, his bed hair sticking up in patches that he tried to flatten with a comb.

“Morning, blimey you were up early! What’s the occasion?”

George shrugged, sorting their purses of loose change into knuts, bolts, sickels and galleons. “Just fancied getting up with the sun today, before we get too busy.”

Fred continued to look confused but didn’t ask any more about George’s sleeping habits. “Have we had an owl from Mum yet?” Fred asked instead, trying not to yawn.

“Nah, not yet. She said last week at the meal that the Sunday dinner would be on as usual though, so I wasn’t expecting one.” George closed the drawer shut and cracked on with the next task, leaving Fred to wake up slowly at the desk on customer duty.

It had been a week since the housewarming meal at Grimmauld Place. George could admit, he’d been sceptical about the place but couldn’t deny that it had been utterly and unrecognisably transformed. There was barely a trace of anything Slytherin left, and the place even had a clean and inviting vibe about it – in a way it was comforting to George that the portraits muttered and cursed them all quietly, otherwise he wouldn’t have known it was the same house as before.

Unlike the Burrow, it hadn’t been a squeeze for all the Weasleys (except Charlie), Hermione, Fleur, Harry, Neville, Luna, Teddy, Andromeda, Seamus and Dean. The grand oak dining table comfortably sat all of them with seats to spare, but the room no longer felt regal and stuffy. They must have done some serious thrifting and bought new bookshelves, chairs and sofas in different colours and patterns, depending on the room, to brighten up the place. The dark ornate wallpaper that had been plastered everywhere had been replaced by a light cream paint that opened up the hallways beautifully. The chandeliers had been polished, the old carpets ripped up and a rich wooden floor lay down instead, with thick and homely rugs interspersed along the way.

The living room on the second floor had elements of Gryffindor tower about it, with red drapes over the windows and squishy crimson armchairs. George’s mouth dropped open when his family had been given the tour, and Fred had to tap it shut.

The only drawback about the evening had been the incredibly grumpy Auror posted opposite the house. He hadn’t appreciated Fred and George’s comments and had ignored them, glaring up and down the street as if challenging whoever wanted to walk past.

“Ignore him,” Harry had said when they’d rung the doorbell and greeted him, “I know I do.”

The biggest difference about Grimmauld Place had to be Kreacher. The stooping house elf that met Fred and George in the hallway to take their coats couldn’t have been more different to the one in George’s memory. He wore a clean, fluffy white towel and actually called them “Young sirs” without a hint of sarcasm. And he went on to serve a feast at the table worthy of Molly Weasley – who looked just as taken aback as George felt.

He didn’t get to speak to the one person he really wanted to. She’d been busy as a hostess, drifting between the conversations and ensuring everyone had plenty to eat and drink. She had looked radiant in a red satin dress that fell elegantly off her shoulders, highlighting the smooth skin of her neck and her slender frame. George had wanted to compliment her on it so badly, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He hung back, never seeking her out, and making a conscious effort to pay attention to Ron and Bill. Fred’s words rang loudly though his head, and George didn’t look at Hermione for longer than was politely necessary. And it hurt.

The night has not been entirely light-hearted. It still felt wrong – and even dangerous – to celebrate an event so close to the end of the war. They had lifted their glasses high and had a minute’s silence for the fallen, remembering their lost family, friends and students who had died in the name of both wars. It felt to George like any minute of joy they had was instantly matched with a sharp pang of loss and guilt that reminded them that so many had died just so he, and everyone else at the table, had the freedom to be happy. They would never forget it.

***

Business was in full flow by the early afternoon, and George found himself tearing around the shop to replenish jars of fever fudge and stock up the boxes of decoy detonators that kept wandering off. The bell above the door was constantly chiming at the influx of customers, and he barely had a chance to think about his dream. Which was exactly how he liked it.

He had just finished gift wrapping up a small witch’s joke wand when the bell rang out again, and he heard a familiar voice cut through the babble of the shop talk. Adrenaline shot like an arrow through his heart.

“I think they’re over here, Neville, by the vanishing hats?”

“Oh yeah, brilliant! I’ll just be a minute.”

George looked up, craning his neck to look over the heads of his customers, and his stomach performed an uncomfortable clench as he saw the tell-tale curls of Hermione next to the tall figure of Neville Longbottom. He moved smoothly through the busy crowd and without thinking it through at all, joined his brother on the till. Fred was serving a weary looking father clutching the hands of two small twin girls, who seemed desperate to get away and get their hands on anything.

Fred chuckled as he finished up and took payment.

“Reminds me of us when we were that small.”

“Yeah...” George said without paying much attention. Where had they got to? He’d lost sight of the familiar bushy hair, his abdomen twisting at the realisation that she’d probably already left. He turned his back to the shop floor and zoned out, composing himself.

It wasn’t like he had anything particular to say to her, anyway, he scolded himself. Disappointment sunk through his stomach, heavy and dull.

“Heya, Fred!”

“Hi, Nev. Bloody hell, you cleaning us out?” Fred replied. George glanced over his shoulder to see Neville struggling under the weight of several items, packets and boxes. He put them down gently on the desk, and Fred began racking up the total.

“I thought I better stock up on bits for the DA, give the first years a real taste of mischief at Hogwarts, y’know? Your stuff’s amazing!” He leaned in closer, looking serious, “besides, we don’t know who the new teachers are yet. Won’t hurt to be prepared, just in case.”

Fred and George shared a concerned look – surely he couldn’t be actually worried about safety at Hogwarts now? But as Neville looked up at the shelves behind the counter, George saw the angry line of a healing scar that went from his eyebrow down to his chest, hidden by the shirt he was wearing. The marks of the Year of Terror, as it was now being called, were proof that nowhere had been completely safe. Maybe it wasn’t such a ludicrous idea to be prepared after all.

“Are you nearly ready?” A higher voice called out, and George’s gaze fell on Hermione as she approached them at the front of the queue. She wore a pale purple t-shirt with a black denim skirt, and the sight of her made George’s palms grow clammy.

“Hey, Granger,” Fred handed Neville a giant purple bag with all of his purchases in, and grinned at her, “how’ve you been?”

“We’re on a study break,” she said, tossing her curls over her shoulder and helping Neville, “getting a head start on our NEWTS. Neville’s been helping me catch up on last year, and we’re meeting Ginny for a study group at the Burrow in a bit.” Hermione smiled, looking up at George through long, thick eyelashes.

“Well that sounds...fun...” Fred snickered, earning him a reproachful look from Hermione.

“Where are you guys working? At Grimmauld?” George asked, to distract her.

Hermione had the slightest dent of a frown in her forehead as she replied, “Yes, for now. I for one can’t wait for the library to be open. It’s a much more suitable environment for revising, especially because you aren’t allowed to practice _duelling_ in there.” Her tone was strongly disapproving.

George laughed at the image of Hermione and Neville trying to work at the table with Harry and Ron throwing hexes and curses around them. It sounded more like Auror prep for when they started at the academy in July than just them turning on each other. So _that’s_ what those two were up to these days.

“Anyway, we should go,” Hermione smiled at the twins, “have to stay on schedule! It was nice to see you both. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner?” She asked, not noticing Neville’s less than enthusiastic look at the mention of more studying.

Fred grinned at them. “See you tomorrow, Granger. Bye, Neville.”

Neville waved goodbye and staggered out, holding the door open for a young boy who ran into the shop with his eyes the size of saucers in wonder.

“Granger, wait – “ George side-stepped out from behind the counter and caught up with her by the shop door.

She turned round, clearly surprised. “George?”

The idea had come to him suddenly, and he ignored Fred’s exasperated sigh from behind him. He had tried being distant, tried being reserved and indifferent in order to contain whatever it was that pulled at his navel when she was near for appearance’s sake. But when it came to her happiness, George gladly threw caution out the window.

She was his friend, and he’d do anything to make her smile.

 _Friend. Sure._ The sly voice hissed in his ear. He ignored it.

He stuffed his hands into his apron pockets. “If- if you need somewhere quieter to work, you could always use our flat upstairs. We’re down here all day anyway, and it’s probably not as noisy as Grimmauld. Nobody’s trying to hex anyone up there.”

Her eyes widened, and he was drawn in to her grateful smile.

“Oh, that would be fantastic! Thank you, George, that’s a great idea! You’re a star.” She threw her arms around him, pulling him down into a hug. Stunned, he pulled his hands from his pockets and wrapped them cautiously around her lower back. She was warm, light and fit neatly into his arms. Hugs from Hermione were quickly working their way up his list of favourite things in the world.

_Cinnamon. It was definitely cinnamon._

“Really, it’s no problem. Just come in here first, let one of us know and we’ll let you up,” he relaxed his arms after a few seconds, standing up straight. He pulled back quickly, not wanting to awkwardly linger at the wrong time. His chest ached as he moved back and let her go, but her friendship meant so, so much to him – he couldn’t risk it.

“Could we start tomorrow, before going to the Burrow?” Hermione asked, eyes alight with excitement, “Neville’s staying at ours for a couple of weeks to finish helping at school and get a head start on Dark Arts revision, and we have so much to do! I think we should start with transfiguration, but he wants to work on his wandwork for charms.. oh, and potions, of course, I need to brush up on that...” her eyes glazed over as she became lost in her plans. George smiled slightly to himself.

“Err, we were kind of planning on being closed and having a day off. Sorry. It’s Sunday tomorrow,” he reminded her. A light pink rose in her cheeks, and Hermione pushed a strand of hair from her eyes.

“Of course, sorry, I forgot – um, Monday, then?” Merlin, she looked adorable when she was flustered.

 _Friend, George. She’s your friend_. The voice reminded him snidely.

“Monday,” He replied with a smile. He opened the door for her and saw Neville waiting outside.

She beamed at him and walked out, the sounds of summer in the Alley gradually working back up to the way it used to be. George propped the door open with a block of wood and looked back towards the long line of customers queuing to be served.

Fred raised an imperious eyebrow at him, and George didn’t need to be psychic to understand he was saying “I told you so. Be careful.”

***

**June 15 1998**

He felt much more rested by Monday morning after a full day sleeping in and slobbing at home the day before, then a huge portion of his mum’s Shepard’s pie for dinner. He buried all thoughts of his dream deep down inside, refusing to let it eat away at his happiness. It was established now that all the Weasley’s and adopted family who could make the Sunday dinners had to, or risk Molly Weasley finding out. It was reassuring to have a tradition forming, and George found himself looking forward to the meal every week. He appreciated his mother’s cooking all the more now he and Fred had to scrape by and experiment with their own meals. Fred was a much better cook than he was, though George would never feed his twin’s ego by telling him.

There had been a small celebration too, with Arthur smiling proudly at them all and blushing furiously as Molly announced in a wobbling voice that he was being promoted to Deputy Head of the Muggle Liaison Office. Teddy had the incredible timing of sneezing loudly on Harry’s lap and sprouting an extra long nose and pink eyebrows at the news, which distracted George’s attention somewhat.

He still felt that strong, yearning pull towards the girl at the other end of the table. Heeding Fred’s words, he kept his head down and his attention fixed throughout dinner on Ginny and Bill’s animated argument about the dangers of quidditch and curse breaking. Once or twice George thought he could feel Hermione’s eyes on him but when he looked up, she was lost in talk with Fleur or laughing with Harry and Arthur as they discussed the oddities of muggle life.

It had struck George that she still hadn’t mentioned her parents since her breakdown on the quidditch pitch last month. Was it his place to ask? Surely – if she didn’t want to talk about it – asking her about them would only make her upset? He decided to leave the subject alone; Harry and Ron would know what was going on about that. They were her closest friends, of course. Besides, George was at the opposite end of the table and out of earshot. Now wasn’t the time.

Monday morning dawned bright and sunny, the unseasonable chill and mist from Saturday chased away by the warmth of a promising summer day. He was already in a great mood after having another blissfully dreamless sleep, and George had barely made it downstairs before there was a short knock at the shop door.

“She can’t be serious! It’s not even eight yet!” Fred groaned, walking over to open the door and turn the ‘Open’ sign round. Hermione grinned at him, with Neville blinking tiredly at her side.

“Morning, Weasleys,” she sounded alert and matter of fact, ready to get down to work, “thanks so much for suggesting this. Can we go up?”

George rubbed his eyes, barely awake himself. “Morning. You haven’t seen the flat yet, have you?” Hermione shook her head. “No worries. Follow me, then.”

He grabbed his apron from the back of the door and led the way back up the stairs to the connecting door to the flat. He held it open as the other two walked in behind him. Bless him, Neville really looked dead on his feet.

The small round dining table had been cleared of all the twin’s notes and plans for the shop, leaving a wide, clean space for the NEWT students to work. Ok, so George may have just shoved it all on the armchair by the window, but it was out of sight at least. He’d also cleared up the coffee table and hurriedly put away the washing up that morning, giving the illusion that he and Fred were vaguely tidy people.

(They really weren’t.)

“This is perfect, it’s already so much quieter. Thank you!” Hermione sighed contentedly and set down her bulging satchel of textbooks on the table, taking in the room. _It wasn’t much,_ George thought, _but it was home now_. He swallowed. Seeing her up here with all his belongings and settling in to work at his own table did funny things to his insides.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her. Hermione picked up one of the photographs on the mantelpiece – one from a Gryffindor Tower party years ago. In it, Angelina kissed Fred on the cheek, grinning madly as he pretended to wipe it away. “Help yourself to tea and coffee - they’re just by the kettle on the side. Milk’s in the fridge, sugar’s in the top cupboard.” George smiled at her, turning back to the door. “See you later. Don’t work Neville too hard, Granger!” He called out as he left the room and went back down the stairs.

If he’d found her presence at the Burrow distracting last night, it was nothing compared to knowing that she was just one floor away from him the entire day. George kept as busy as he could, dashing about serving customers and darting between the post office and the storage room to send off owl-orders. Five o’clock came and went with still no sign of either Hermione or Neville, so when the twins finished closing with Verity’s help, George opened the flat door to see both of them still pouring over their books. He couldn’t actually see the table anymore, it was completely covered in open textbooks and loose pieces of parchment with scribbles on. Hermione had that mad glint in her eyes and flyaway hair that George instantly associated with the exam season at Hogwarts, and he knocked hesitantly on the already open door.

“Hey... can we come in?”

She snapped upright at the intrusion, and he spotted a quill tangled in her mane of curls.

“Hi! Of course, sorry, let me make some space.” She piled some of the books on top of each other, filing the parchments inside the covers. Neville had his head in his hands, lips moving wordlessly as he looked over a wall of text under a diagram of a wailing banshee.

“Are you trying to learn every subject in a single day?” Fred asked, walking over to the side and flicking on the kettle. He looked over her shoulder at the open transfiguration book. “Don’t think we ever got this far, Georgie, it’s all gibberish.”

“It absolutely is not!” Hermione said, closing the book solidly and glaring at Fred indignatly, “it’s Gobsham’s law of inter-dimensional property transfiguration! It’s absolutely vital for the preservation of wizarding architecture and design – Hogwarts is the blueprint of a space where it's dimensions are crucially-“

“He was kidding, Granger. Ignore him.” George snorted, giving Fred a withering look. He should know better than to wind up an already tightly-wound revision-stressed Hermione. She looked mildly apologetic.

“Oops. Sorry.”

Fred grinned, pouring himself a huge mug of coffee.

“Neville? Hey, earth to Neville,” Fred waved his hand in front of Neville’s face to get his attention.

“Huh, what?” The younger boy looked up, dazed and blinking rapidly. “What time is it? Can we stop yet?”

George chuckled but Hermione looked mortified. “’Course you can stop, mate, we’re not holding you prisoner.” He nodded at Hermione, “although it sounds like _she_ is.”

Hermione tutted, collecting her books into four neat piles. “Don’t be ridiculous, Neville’s here of his own accord. Aren’t you, Neville?”

Neville mumbled indistinctly, closing his eyes and leaning back on the chair.

“I’ll take that as a reluctant yes.” Fred laughed, relaxing down on the blue sofa and sipping his drink.

“Are you sure it’s ok for us to take up your space like this?” Hermione asked, biting her lip.

“It’s fine, Granger. We’re not around during the day, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” George said earnestly. Fred smirked at him from across the room, and he quickly clarified, “I mean, for revision, if it gets you out of the house. That’s cool.”

 _Fuck_ , she was looking at him funny. He coughed and looked out the window at the cloudless sky.

Thankfully, Neville stood up and broke the tension, rubbing his neck with one hand. “Cheers for this, guys. I’d never get any work done if I was back home with my Grandma – she’s been having guests round loads the past few weeks. Says she wants to make up for lost time, but I think she just likes the excuse to have parties. And it was a right pain trying to study with Harry and Ron duelling all over the house.”

“Are you going into Hogwarts tomorrow, with them?” Hermione asked him.

“Think so. Should be completely done by the end of the month, McGonagall reckons. Last few floors to see to, and it’ll all be over.” Neville grinned, packing his own textbooks away in his bag and walking over to the fireplace, ready to Floo back to Grimmauld Place. Hermione took the hint and grabbed her cardigan off the back of the chair.

“If it’s ok with you two, could I come back tomorrow anyway?” She asked Fred and George, looking between them. “I prefer working here. Could I leave some of my books and notes on the table?”

Fred shrugged, flicking through a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ with a frown. “Fine by me. George?”

He smiled weakly at her. “Absolutely.”

 _Although_ _I wish you’d stay, too._

Neville stepped into the fireplace first, calling out "See ya later!" before he disappeared in a flash of green smoke.

Hermione followed, giving George a small wave before vanishing from sight.

The small voice at the back of his head sighed sadly.


	12. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 reads already! I can't believe it. Thank you all so, so much.  
> This chapter has another song featured, if you want to listen along - Ma Baker, by Boney M. It's a bop! As George discovers.  
> (Chapter 13 will pick up right where this one ends)

**Grimmauld Place, June 18 1998**

When it came to exams, planning and efficient organisation were key. Hermione had always known this, and always fixated on timetables, productivity and allotting her time to specific subjects well in advance. NEWTs required serious preparation, like McGonagall had reiterated in her letters, and Hermione wouldn’t settle for anything less than perfection. Silence was preferable for her working conditions, but the distant sounds of Diagon Alley from Fred and George’s kitchen window were becoming a close second.

What did not work, however, was narrowly avoiding a direct bat-bogey hex while in the middle of studying the series of medieval Goblin wars in Europe.

“Ginny! Watch it!” Hermione shouted, ducking just in time to hide behind her chair. She thought she’d be safe from the others in the second floor office upstairs after dinner, but apparently not. (Kreacher had served an _excellent_ vegetable hotpot that evening.)

“Oh crap, sorry Hermione! I thought you were Ron planning an ambush.” Ginny called off the green globule bats and stuck her wand back up her sleeve, looking thoroughly apologetic. “Blame him – he’s the one that suggested I try and catch him and Harry off guard. He wants to improve their reaction times or something.”

Hermione stood up slowly, scowling at Ginny and adjusting her top as she returned to her chair.

“The sooner they do that bloody aptitude test, the better. Kingsley’s basically all but promised them both a spot on the squad, Ron’s stressing over nothing.” She picked up her rolls of timeline, muttering, “Now, if he’d put half this amount of energy into revising for his OWL’s...”

She looked up from her notes to see that Ginny had already snuck out of the room. Hermione sighed.

Ginny was spending more and more time at Grimmauld Place, under Ron’s careful glare. _Which is fine_ , Hermione thought, _although now it feels like three against one._ Hermione had hoped that the younger girl would have evened out the energy in the house, balancing the scales in a way – but no. Now, with Ginny’s wicked aim and impressive arsenal of hexes, it was even more impossible to study uninterrupted than before. Hermione couldn’t _wait_ to get out and escape to the quiet calm of the shop.

She frowned. Calling Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes _calm_? _Quiet_? That felt like a complete oxymoron.

Her days were settling into a comforting pattern of study now, sometimes with Neville and Ginny for company, but some days without. She’d taken a backseat with the Hogwarts repairs now the amount to do was dwindling, and Hermione found herself on the doorstep of the shop every morning for eight o’clock sharp, working until the twins closed up in the early evening and came upstairs.

Those were her favourite moments of the day. When the shock of red hair came through the door and her heart soared, catching his eye and receiving a smile in return. They’d strike up an easy conversation, chatting casually while George pottered around getting changed or helping Fred make a start on dinner. It was so effortless, talking to him. Twice already Angelina had Floo-ed in and joined them for a while at the table before disappearing into Fred’s room. And then it was just George and Hermione for a few minutes before she left.

She liked those times best of all.

She pulled herself out of her daydream and worked through her notes on the Goblin wars for another hour, but when the grandfather’s clock on the landing chimed ten times, she rubbed her eyes and decided to call it quits for today. Hermione pulled the hairband out of her ponytail, combing through the frizzy curls with her fingers, and padded across the landing to the bathroom.

No room had escaped the process of redecorating, and all the bathrooms now felt spacious and clean. This one had white and blue tiles bordering the walls, a pristine white sink with a dark blue cabinet above and a claw footed white bathtub against the far wall by the toilet. There was even a long fingered spider-plant, draping down across the mirror on the cabinet door. Any plant previously in the house would have surely tried to throttle her.

Hermione washed her face and cleaned her teeth, then headed up to the top floor and her new bedroom. The house was now a mishmash of colours and patterns in every room and hallway, thanks to Fleur and Mrs Weasley’s help. Harry had insisted that she choose the colour scheme for her new room, and have full control over the decoration process. For the first time in her life, Hermione had been able to decide exactly how she wanted her own bedroom to look, and it had turned out beautifully.

She’d gone for a pale sage green feature wall around the large arched window facing out onto the street and gardens below. Her new bedding was a darker forest green, with white leaves outlined across it, and a large wooden desk and chair took up the wall opposite her double bed and new oak wardrobe. Her favourite part was the random assortment of photographs, prints and artwork she’d collected over the weeks, and Hermione had picked out a couple of large potted plants for the corners of the room from a market sale in muggle London. Naturally, there was a grand bookcase by the door, stuffed full of her vast collection of novels and hardbacks as well as school books that she’d formed over the years. Mrs Weasley had also knitted her a cream throw for the bed, and Hermione adored how the modest space now looked fresh and modern. Her own.

Her room was next to what had once been Sirius’, and she passed Harry leaving his room on the stairs, heading for the bathroom.

“Hey. Did you get lots done?” He asked, already in his grey pyjama top and tartan trousers.

Ginny must have apparated home already. She was most definitely _not_ allowed to stay over, and it was hard to tell who was most adamant about that – Ron, or Mrs Weasley.

“It’s going slowly but I’m keeping on top of it, despite your girlfriend’s best efforts to attack me. How was practice?”

Harry laughed. “Oops, Gin did mention something about that before she went home. Good reflexes, Hermione.” He took his glasses off and gave them a quick clean with the bottom of his sleeve. “I wish we knew how we were gonna be tested, though, for the Academy. But it’s going alright - Ron’s definitely improving at his defensive spells.”

“You’ll be fine, both of you. Of course you’ll get in.” Hermione assured him.

“I hope so,” He shoved his glasses back on. “though Kingsley only said he could put us at the top of the list. It’s not guaranteed that we’ll make it in this time. We can try again next year for the intake if we fail it this time round.” He paused. “We’re going back to Hogwarts tomorrow, actually, probably for the last time. Wanna come?”

Hermione appreciated the offer, but shook her head. “No thanks. Hope it goes well, though. See you tomorrow, Harry. Goodnight!”

“Night.” He yawned and trudged downstairs.

She smiled and brushed past him, closing her bedroom door shut.

The faint sounds of London nightlife carrying across the rooftops provided a blanket of white noise and hubbub that had already become so comforting to Hermione. Grimmauld Place was quickly becoming homely, though not in the same way as the Burrow, with it’s creaks and groans in the dark.

Sleep came easily that night, but so did the darkness.

She would never be able to forget the high ceiling of Malfoy Manor, or the press of the sharp cold knife against her forearm. The hooded figure of Bellatrix Lestrange was alive and wild in her dreams, cackling as Hermione screamed and begged for it all to end. Her skin prickled at the deranged echo of whispers hissed into her ear as she lay on the floor, staring up above but bound and trapped.

_You filthy, disgusting little mudblood. Let’s try that again, shall we? WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN MY VAULT? CRUCIO!_

Hermione’s chest tightened and strained, consumed by unbearable pain that tore through her blood like wildfire, unable to escape. Nothing compared to this. Over and over, she screamed and begged for it to stop. Tears seeped down her cheeks at the slash of the knife carving into her skin.

She woke up in the dark, sobbing violently and clutching her pillow so tightly she thought her knuckles might crack.

The logical side of Hermione’s brain informed her that she was hyperventilating, and that she needed to take a succession of steady, deep breaths to calm down and separate the dream from reality. But the other half was still in that awful room with that mad woman leering over her – and it took everything she had to gulp back her tears and count to a hundred.

It took fifty breaths for Hermione to breathe calmly again. Exhausted, she flipped her pillow over and nestled further under the duvet, cocooning herself in the soft covers and gradually fell back into an unsettled sleep.

***

“Mornin’! How are you – oh.”

She swept past Fred with a forced smile, fully aware of how ragged she looked. Hermione had wrestled with her unyielding bushy hair that morning but it eventually won, so it was loosely stuffed into a low-maintenance high ponytail. Her eyes were puffy and a little bloodshot from her terrible night’s sleep, and at some point she had bit her lip so hard it had cracked and bled. She looked dreadful - a right sight for sore eyes. But, she appeared at the shop bang on time at eight o’clock, ready to throw herself into her work. Neville was spending the day at Hogwarts, and Ginny feigned a headache so it was just Hermione today.

“Hi. Can I go up?” She asked, still facing away from Fred and with as brisk a voice as she could manage.

“Uh, sure, gimme a second.”

Fred finished restocking the tottering pile of whizzbangs on the counter and flicked his wand at the door handle to the flat. “ _Alohamora_.”

Hermione half turned to look at him, with an eyebrow raised. He put his wand behind his ear and gave her a funny look, like he was sizing her up.

“I’m feeling lazy today. Honestly, I’m tempted to just give you a key at this point. Go on up.”

“Thanks, Fred. See you later!”

She made her way up the stairs and pushed the unlocked door open, and was met with a glorious but unexpected sight.

George was twisting on the spot and bobbing his head in time to an upbeat song on the radio, hips wiggling as he finished washing his dishes in the sink. He was in light denim trousers, wearing a white t-shirt with a faded picture of an oasis on it. It looked distinctly muggle-ish. Hermione covered her mouth with her hands, desperately trying to stop a giggle from escaping. George made no move to look at the door, so she assumed he hadn’t heard her enter. He sung along loudly - and badly - in his low voice.

“ _Ma Baker, she taught her four sons... Ma Baker, to handle their guns..._ ”

It was muggle music – Hermione recognised it as an embarrassing disco track her mum used to play a lot when she was little. The memory of summer holidays with the album blaring in the car burned through her heart, and she was instantly torn between nostalgia and humour at the sight of him dancing.

_‘Boney M’, the band was called. That was it._

She managed to stay quiet and he just kept _going_ – grooving to the music and singing along confidently, even when he got the words wrong. He didn’t look up until the end of the song as he rinsed off the final plate. George’s eyes met hers, and his smile slowly disappeared and morphed into a look of pure horror at the sight of her.

“Oh bugger.”

Hermione burst out laughing, a real full belly laugh that reached right down into her stomach and spread joy to the ends of her fingertips. She could barely breathe, and accidentally snorted – which just set her off more. She hadn’t laughed like that in ages.

When she finally came up for air, she saw that George was chuckling too, rubbing his left arm awkwardly and looking very red in the face.

“So... how much of that did you see?” He asked, his blush clashing horribly with his ginger hair.

Hermione dropped her bag by the chair she always sat in, grinning broadly.

“All of it. Well, almost all of it.” She began to unpack her notes, setting her quill and inkpot down next to her textbooks. “You’ve got some moves, Weasley. I should have applauded!”

George groaned, hanging his head in pretend shame. “I’m so busted.”

“Yup. That’s some quality blackmail material I’ve got now.” She teased.

He looked at her, a mischievous smirk appearing. “You’ve got no proof, Granger.”

She thought about it. “No, I don’t. But I can just put on the song again at the Burrow and wait for you to dance along. I bet your brothers would _love_ to see that.”

George stopped smirking and instead looked mortified. “Please, no. I’d never live it down! I can’t control it!”

Hermione giggled. It was fun making him squirm.

“How did you find out about that band, anyway? I thought your family didn’t listen to muggle music?” She asked. In truth, she’d only really seen Mrs Weasley put on Celestina Warbeck; she couldn’t remember any of the other Weasleys ever listening to much music.

“I quite like the muggle radio stations,” he explained, lowering the volume on the old stereo, “Angelina put it on a few times when she was over and, I dunno, some of their stuff is really great! I’ve been getting Ginny into a few bands too. Have you heard of The Weavels?”

George sat down in the chair nearest the fireplace, facing her, with a delighted look on his face. She never would have guessed that he’d be in to pop or _disco_ , of all things.

“Do - do you mean The Beatles?”

George gasped. “Shit, yeah! That’s still a weird name though. They’re amazing – and I really like Queen, Guns N' Roses, ABBA and The Dire Straights.”

“Dire Straits,” Hermione gently corrected him. He looked confused.

“Yeah, The Dire Straights,” he nodded.

She didn’t have the heart to explain it to him; she was still in a bit of shock at his performance. She fiddled with the feathers on her quill.

“Um, I’m sorry for walking in on you – Fred let me up. He didn’t warn me.”

George rolled his eyes and switched the kettle on with his wand. Now that she was looking for it, she recognised it as a muggle kettle that didn’t need to be boiled on the hob. It must have been adapted with magic – and she guessed that Mr Weasley might have had a hand in modifying it.

“That was definitely not an accident, the cheeky fucker. He set me up! He knows I listen to music when I do the washing up.”

Hermione giggled, and George looked back at her with a crooked grin breaking out on his face. Her stomach somersaulted at the sight, her heart beating a lot faster than it had been just a few minutes before.

She cleared her throat.

“Cup of tea?” George offered, standing up and walking over to the kitchen counter.

“Please.” She replied, trying to concentrate on her arithmancy notes. This was the most she’d seen of George for weeks – usually she only got those few minutes or so when the twins returned upstairs from work and then she had to leave. She wanted to stretch out their time together for as long as possible.

“I thought I might take the morning off, actually,” George said out of the blue, as if reading her mind, “you don’t mind, do you? I don’t want to interrupt your work. I’ll be quiet.” He smiled at her over his shoulder as he poured the boiling water into two cups, stirring them with a teaspoon.

“No, not at all!” Hermione replied quickly, wincing as soon as the words left her mouth.

 _Keen, much?_ The sneering voice piped up.

“What I mean is, of course you should stay in here. I’m the one intruding on _your_ home,” she paused, “are you sure Fred doesn’t need help?”

George grabbed the bottle of milk from the fridge. It dawned on Hermione that he hadn’t asked her how she took her tea. 2 sugars and barely any milk. He put the cup down in front of her and she took a cautious sip. _Perfect_.

“Verity and Archie are in today too. It’s midweek, so we shouldn’t be too busy.”

“Who’s Archie?” Hermione asked, sipping gratefully at the hot drink. She despised coffee, even when she felt as rough and tired as she did today. A nice strong cup of tea was exactly what she needed.

“Archibald Thorne? He’s a sixth year who wanted some work experience. Came in with a decent CV and works one day a week now. He’s a useful lad, actually, really good salesman. Seems to do well with the younger witches,” George winked at her, and Hermione nearly inhaled her tea up her nose.

She tried really hard not to cough. They drank their tea in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the radio now playing a mournful piano ballad with a warbling voice she didn’t recognise. Revision was a distant priority to her right now. She could make up the lost time.

“How’s Fred feeling?” She asked when the song ended, “he seems like he’s back up to full strength?”

George’s posture changed almost unnoticeably, but she saw him sit up a little straighter – the good-natured creases by his eyes smoothed out slightly as his smile drooped fractionally.

“He’s... he’s fine, yeah. Insists he feels normal and doesn’t get so tired anymore.”

Something about the way George spoke made Hermione want to reach across and hold his hand tightly.

“That’s such good news! And... are you ok?” She asked quietly. It was such an innocent question, why on earth did she feel nervous to ask it?

“Yeah, course I am,” he said. But his voice quavered on the last word and he cast his eyes down to his mug and didn’t seem fine at all.

 _Be brave_ , said the voice at the back of her mind.

“Are you sure?”

George’s brow furrowed and he looked up at her. The intensity caught her off guard and she didn’t look away. She held his gaze, her own eyes mirroring the concern on his face. He didn’t say anything for several seconds, and Hermione was starting to panic that she’d inadvertently asked an awful question.

“I have these dreams,” George said so softly that she had to lean in to catch every word, “that Fred- that he... dies. Again. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I just stand there... and watch.”

Hermione swallowed, focused on her friend’s face. The twinkle in his eye had been replaced by the rising of tears as he continued.

“But now, sometimes I have these other dreams. He’s still dead, or at least it’s not – not him anymore. And,” George sniffed and closed his eyes. A single tear spilled out and dripped down his nose, landing in his lap, “his eyes open and there’s just _white_ where his eyes should be. He’s covered in blood and... and...”

He took a shuddering breath and didn’t finish the sentence.

“Oh, George,” Hermione breathed, holding her mug firmly in both hands. The heat from the ceramic was uncomfortably warm, and she yearned to reach across the table and envelop him in a fierce hug. She reached out and gently placed her hand on top of his, drawing small circles with her thumb on his rough skin.

“I have nightmares too.” She said quietly, keeping her eyes on the shapes she was drawing thoughtlessly.

He looked up at her sharply.

“It’s always... _her_... laughing away and cutting me. She won’t stop, and the pain is so real it wakes me up. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget her – or the way she hurt me. I think I know how you feel.”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand, gazing down at their connected fingers.

“Stupid, stupid dreams,” he said, gulping down the rest of his tea. He slowly looked up at her. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what brought this on, I’ve been sleeping so badly lately. It’s like, I know he’s physically _fine_ , but part of me just keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can’t let it go.”

Hermione bowed her head ever so slightly, encouraging him to keep going. Her heart ached for him – for the broken boy who couldn’t let his guard down. The war taught them all that nobody was untouchable.

_He needs this. He needs to get it off his chest._

“And this is horrible,” he exhaled quickly and bit his lip, still looking at her, “but sometimes – sometimes I don’t think it was... fair. Don’t get me wrong, I am so, _so_ glad that he’s alive. Of course I am. But... how come he was the one who was saved? Not Remus, or Tonks? Or what about Colin Creevey?”

George shook his head, another tear falling. “I know he thinks about it too, even if he won’t talk about it. He feels so guilty.”

Hermione concentrated on the small circles she was making on his hand, and thought over her words carefully. It felt increasingly intimate, this moment between them, and she could feel the warmth of his breath as leaned forward in his chair watching her fingers travel over his skin. She could even feel his rhythmic pulse when her thumb graced the bottom of his wrist. He let out a quiet noise of content, so she didn’t let go.

This was the most vulnerable she’d ever seen George - with the awful exception of The Battle. His guttural cries over Fred’s body had been harrowing, and she’d heard them from the far back of the hall.

The silence between them now lingered in the air, causing the hairs on her arm to prickle in anticipation.

“I think,” she said softly, “that what’s done is done. He can’t change the past – and neither can you. It could take you both years to come to terms with what happened, and that’s ok. But neither you nor Fred can be blamed for anything, George. Anything at all. You just have to make the most out of life, and be grateful that you’re here - but not indebted to the world. You shouldn’t have to carry that around with you.”

Hermione rested her fingers on the top of his closed fist and finally looked up. His eyes were blazing, fixed on her own. She saw the echo of the burning man from the Great Hall in his face.

“How does Harry do it?” He whispered.

“I honestly don’t know,” she replied kindly, “but he’s proof that you can.”

With apparent effort, George smiled weakly at her. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was better than nothing.

_You did that. You made him smile._

She retracted her hand and disguised the movement as holding her empty mug. Suddenly her hands felt so empty and cold. George sniffed again and wiped his hands on his trousers.

The moment was over, but to her surprise, he didn’t leave.

“Come on, Granger,” he said, opening the nearest textbook on his side of the table. It was Advanced Charms, she recognised the cover. “You don’t get to skive off just because I’m here.”

Hermione let out a shaky laugh and stood up, picking up his mug too and placing them down by the kettle. She sat back down at the table and pulled her hairband tighter.

“Go on then. Test me on chapter eight.”

***

George was actually quite a good revision partner. He was patient, and showed no sign of stress or irritation when she got too invested in an answer and snatched the flashcard off him to double check the precise wording.

When Fred came up for his lunch break, George volunteered to cover the till for half an hour.

“I’ll come back up when I can. If you still want help?” He asked with a grin before he left.

“Yeah, please.” Hermione nodded, finding herself smiling at him in return.

Fred assembled a four tier sandwich and tried to fit it all in his mouth in one go. “I ee beyn elpfu?” He attempted to ask through his bulging cheeks.

_Honestly, it must run in the family. Ron does the exact same thing._

“Pardon?” Hermione snorted, barely looking up from scanning over the paragraph in the charms textbook. NEWT charms was particularly nasty, as you had to be competent at non-verbal spells _and_ wandless magic in some cases.

Fred cleared his throat. “Ahem. I said; ‘Is he being helpful’? George hates revision; our OWL results are proof of that.”

She paused, her finger on the page keeping her place. “Yeah, he is.”

“Huh,” He took another massive bite, and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Weird.”

She had no intention of overanalysing that statement, so she ignored him and kept working. Fred relaxed on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, flicking absentmindedly through a quidditch magazine.

About fifteen minutes later, Hermione was completely engrossed in her notes and the fireplace roared unexpectedly, making her jump. A familiar face appeared in the green flame.

“Fred! Oi, Fred! Anyone there? Pull me through would you?” Ginny called out, and Hermione watched Fred leap up from the sofa and tug his little sister by the arms into the living room.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, ruffling her hair.

Ginny smacked his hands away, dusting the soot from her shoulders. She had made the brave choice to wear a cream floaty blouse with denim shorts, and her top was now distinctly green around the edges.

“I’m bored, obviously. Mum was doing my head in and she wouldn’t let me go and help at Hogwarts, so I thought I’d come see you guys,” she beamed at Hermione, “maybe even fit some work in,” she said cheerily.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Really?”

“Really!” Ginny replied, brandishing her backpack and pulling out empty pages of parchment and a worn notebook.

Hermione wasn’t convinced; Ginny spent the entire time she was meant to be studying daydreaming or planning quidditch tactics for upcoming matches. She had her heart set on being Quidditch Captain – from what she had told Hermione about the last year, quidditch had been continuously interrupted at Hogwarts, as Gryffindor hadn’t been allowed a captain. It was another way of the Carrow twins trying to wear their morale down and tear the house apart.

“Um,” Ginny set her bag down on the table and looked up at Hermione with big, puppy dog eyes, “and I was kinda hoping you’d show me round muggle London? I’ve never been.”

Fred huffed and went back to his sandwich. “Mum will go mental, Gin.”

Ginny glared at him, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I didn’t ask for _your_ input. Don’t you dare tell her.” She turned back to Hermione – her features rearranged to a picture of sweetness and light, batting her eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

Hermione bit her bottom lip and hissed out in pain as she cracked the scab that was forming there. She checked the clock on the mantelpiece. Considering how slowly she’d started the morning off, she was still managing to keep on top of her work.

_Maybe an afternoon off couldn’t hurt...?_

“Okay, maybe. If we get two hours of work done with no interruptions and no quidditch talk, I’ll take you to muggle London.” Hermione presented her hand for shaking, “do we have a deal?”

Ginny ignored the outstretched hand and hugged Hermione tightly, crushing her arms to her side and knocking the breath out of her.

“Deal! Thank you, thank you! You’re the best!” Ginny said delightedly.

“Uh, Ginny? Are you trying to squeeze Granger to death?” George’s voice carried from the doorway. Hermione was released and she nursed her lightly bruised ribs. He watched her with a wry smirk on his face, his short hair tousled from his stint on the shop floor.

“We’re going to the muggle side of London! Ooh can we go to the Camden markets?” Ginny was practically bouncing up and down and Hermione was beginning to get a headache.

“Yes, yes we can just – hush and let’s actually get some work done first. Ok? It’ll still be there in two hours, Gin.”

Ginny sighed and flopped down dramatically into the nearest chair at the table. “Can you help me with potions? I’m fine with charms, but Slughorn’s list of reactive natural substances just doesn’t make sense.”

Potions wasn’t on her to-do list for that day, but Hermione was happy to oblige and brush up on her own knowledge. While she helped Ginny out, Fred licked his fingers clean and stretched his shoulders out.

“Better get back to it, see you guys in a bit. Have a good time!” He tapped George on the shoulder before he ambled down the stairs, whistling a jaunty tune.

George stood awkwardly by the fridge, apparently not knowing what to do with himself.

“Sit down, Weasley. You’re making me nervous just standing there.” Hermione said without looking up. The chair to her right scraped against the floor as it was pulled out, and sure enough he joined the girls at the table and rifled through the sheets of parchment that covered the tablecloth. With Ginny in the chair opposite her, Hermione and George’s knees kept bumping into each other. _Merlin, this table really is tiny,_ she thought. But it wasn’t a complaint.

“You should come too!” Ginny said suddenly, already distracted.

George frowned in confusion, organising the papers into subject order. “Come where?”

“Muggle London, stupid, if you’re not working. C’mon, it’s been ages since you’ve done anything fun, Georgie.” Ginny insisted, twirling her quill between her hands.

Hermione felt his eyes on her, and leant her chin on her propped up hand. “Only,” she sad slowly, “if we stay _focused_.” Ginny stopped playing with her quill and looked very, very interested in her notes. George rolled his eyes, relaxing back in his chair and crossing his legs.

“I wouldn’t mind tagging along, if that’s alright with you, Granger? I want to see the record shops. I’ve always wanted to go but Mum wouldn’t really let us. She didn’t trust Dad to not blow our cover and reveal the wizarding world to an unsuspecting muggle.”

His knee bumped gently against her thigh, and he met her gaze. The midday sunlight through the window caused his eyes to turn a beautiful shade of amber, with dark flecks around the centre.

Not that she noticed this.

“You two are definitely overestimating my ability as a tour guide,” she cautioned them, “I haven’t visited that side of London for years. We’re probably going to get quite lost.” She smiled, already picturing the chaos that would be a Weasley asking a muggle for directions. She jokingly thought the Statute of Secrecy itself could be at risk, if she wasn’t careful.

“Well, I don’t mind getting lost,” Ginny said confidently, underlining a passage of text, “I’m up for an adventure. I hate being bored.” George chuckled, and his knee knocked against Hermione’s again under the table.

“I thought we’d all agreed that we’d had enough excitement for a lifetime?” He asked innocently.

Ginny hit him over the head with a roll of astronomy charts. “Shut up and help me learn this shit.”

“Ginny!”

“Sorry, Hermione.”


	13. Tourists

**London, June 19 1998**

George was beginning to understand his father’s fascination with muggles. With all the colour, noise and chaos of the city in summer, he was sure they had a magic of their own.

They were in no rush, and Hermione was endlessly patient with George and Ginny as they asked a stream of questions, gazing around in wonder as they left wizarding London far behind. George tried hard not to look clueless, he had come through muggle London to get to St Mungo’s a handful of times before, but he found it all incredibly overwhelming in the best way. Hermione had an indulgent smile on her face, clearly amused at their reactions.

“What’s that?”

“They’re called traffic lights. They control the flow of cars, so nobody crashes into each other. Green for go, red for stop.”

“ _Wow_. And that, in the wall?”

“An ATM. Dispenses muggle money from the bank.”

“Cool! And what’s _that_?”

“That’s a bin lorry, Ginny. People put their rubbish out one day a week, and it gets collected.”

“...weird.”

There was so much to process that he struggled to keep up with the road signs and place names they passed, the streets of concrete and billboards merging into one. They walked far from the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione confidently in the lead but making sure he and Ginny didn’t get left behind. She tried to stop them pointing too eagerly and from drawing attention to themselves, but the muggles walked by without looking twice at them. They seemed quite busy, with their heads down, striding with purpose and ignoring them. Hermione said the muggles were very used to tourists.

George loved the anonymity of it all.

However, there were an awful lot of people in muggle London, far more than in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, which felt miniscule in comparison. He kept accidentally walking into people when he wasn’t looking where he was going. George cursed himself internally that he’d never really thought to cross through the wall and investigate the city that was on the other side. How had he not been more curious? It was so similar and yet... so different. He made a mental note to drag Fred along with him next time – although, they’d probably need either Harry or Hermione to come too.

_We'd definitely get lost otherwise._

Despite her earlier protests, Hermione seemed to have a keen sense of direction and knew her way round better than she’d let on. In true tour guide fashion, she explained in a clear and authoritative voice what they were passing, which was mainly statues of people George and Ginny had never heard of, and other landmarks or important buildings like the museums.

He knew their dad would lose his mind over the art galleries and fancy looking museums. _Maybe I could take him for his birthday_? _He’d love that._

“I came here once when I was little,” Hermione said to him as Ginny read the descriptive poster by the entrance to the Natural Science museum. “In year five, I think, on a school trip. There was a lot of walking, and I don’t remember much about the exhibits. But it was a good day.” She smiled sadly, lost in memories.

George suddenly felt an ache of envy. “You went on school trips?”

Hermione nodded, looking at him in surprise. “Yeah, didn’t you?”

“No, never. We didn’t go to a primary school, Mum home-schooled us. We couldn’t afford days out. It was mayhem, Mum trying to teach Percy, me and Fred, Ron _and_ Ginny at the same time.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “She did that all by herself? Oh Merlin,” her round brown eyes filled with pity, which George found hard to look at. “I’d never thought about primary schools for magical children before Hogwarts! I assume most purebloods home-school their own, and half-bloods and muggleborns just go to a non-magical school like I did. That’s...” she struggled with her words, “so _stupid_! Nothing is standardized!”

George laughed at her indignant reaction, relieved she no longer looked so worried about him. He watched Ginny skip down the steps back towards them, scaring some pigeons and causing them to take flight.

“Wizarding families are so spread out across the country, though. Unless it was a boarding school, it wouldn’t be practical to have magic primary schools.” He gently kicked an empty coke can that rolled past. “But you should take that up with the Ministry.”

Hermione smoothed a tangle from her hair and tucked her long fringe behind her ear, looking determined. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

He didn’t doubt it. _She could do anything._

As they kept walking on, George had the sobering thought that these muggles had no idea that a war had just been won in their favour; that they were now protected and wouldn’t be slaughtered in the name of Pure-blood supremacy. Their lives continued on like nothing had changed, whereas the British wizarding world was forever changed. It was mind-boggling.

“Are you hungry? I’m starving,” Hermione asked, pausing after a while on a corner so they could talk without being swept away by the crowds. They stood under the swinging sign of a busy looking pub, and the smells from the kitchen wafted out of the open windows and made George’s mouth water. Fresh battered chips and steak & onion pie mixed with the telling aroma of hopps, from the ales.

“Yeah I am, actually. What do you fancy?” He asked, looking round. He hoped she’d say the pub they were next to was a good choice.

Hermione thought for a moment. “ You said you wanted to go to Camden, Ginny, it’s quite far from here but we could get the bus. Give you the real muggle experience. Camden’s got a great reputation for food and market stalls.”

Ginny beamed. “Ah yeah! My friend Leo talked about it a lot in the DA last year. Lead the way.”

George was mildly nervous about getting on a muggle bus, but Hermione smoothly asked for three tickets and handled the payment so he and Ginny didn’t need to do anything but sit down upstairs. They took the front seats at the top, with the best view possible straight out onto the road. It was noisy, slow and smelly – but George didn’t really mind. He watched the shops, cars and people trundle past, taking it all in. Hermione seemed to be enjoying watching him and Ginny more than looking out the window.

Half an hour later they disembarked and Hermione led the way at a pace that allowed George and Ginny to chatter excitedly and discuss what they saw. There were so many black cars that looked identical! Just like the ones the Ministry had sent for their trip to King’s Cross in George’s last year, though these ones looked a lot smaller.

They walked past plenty of shops displaying clothes, books or weird little black boxes with long antennae. Ginny peered through the window at that shop, and Hermione explained it was a way for muggles to communicate instantly, rather than faffing with letters. Portable tellyphones. Honestly, it really was magic. She ducked into a smaller series of streets, more familiar to George and like Diagon Alley with their tall, narrow buildings full of character. They came out onto a road that was decorated with colourful posters and announcements, neon multi-coloured paper dotted on every lamppost and plastered against the metal bridge above.

This area was far more vibrant and multi-cultural than the monotonous greys and blacks of the earlier roads, and more scents of cooking clamoured for his attention in an array of spices and flavours he hadn’t smelt before.

“Bloody hell!” Ginny murmured, grinning as she made eye contact with a tall man wearing a green feather boa around his neck. He also had luminescent yellow nail polish and thick winged eyeliner, and winked in her direction.

“I didn’t know muggles could dress like that,” George said, mildly stunned, as he saw two teenagers walk past in heavy black and purple boots, with ripped jeans and leather jackets. One of the girls had braids all the way down her lower back, with a red streak running through it. The closest he’d ever seen to this style was Tonks - his heart immediately sank and filled with an ache of sadness at the thought.

“I’ve never really thought about the difference in muggle and wizarding fashion,” Hermione mused as she grabbed Ginny by the hand and gently pulled her away from the tall man to stop her staring, “did wizards and witches not have the punk movement, or big 80s hair?”

“I think we did,” Ginny said, a wicked smile appearing, “there’s a picture of dad somewhere with blue hair, and I even think mum had an ear piercing once, but it’s closed up now.”

George chuckled at Hermione’s shell-shocked expression.

***

Ginny all but licked her paper plate clean.

“Oh man, I want another one.”

“You can’t be serious!” George sniggered, impressed by his sister’s appetite. They’d all agreed on getting lunch at a South American food stall at the far end of the courtyard, the intoxicating smells of roasted peppers, cumin and garlic too appetising to resist.

“Shut it, you. I train five days a week – often more. I need to keep my strength up.” Ginny glared at him.

“We could get desert? We passed an ice-cream parlour. It won’t be as exciting as Fortescue’s, but it could still be good.” Hermione suggested, trying to keep the peace. She checked her purse at the bottom of her beaded bag for muggle coins. George had offered to pay already, but had no muggle currency of his own.

“Yes! Ice-cream!” Ginny tossed her empty plate into the nearby bin and looked around expectantly for the place. George rolled his eyes in Hermione’s direction, and she giggled. He felt his ears burn red at the sound.

The ice-cream parlour was quite empty, halfway between an authentic Italian gelato shop and an American diner. It couldn’t make up it’s mind between the two cultures and tried to cater to all types half-heartedly. Flecked blue paint was peeling off the windows, and there were dozens of paintings of the Italian coast and countryside taking up most of the walls. What few metal chairs and tables there were, were squished haphazardly together with a small plastic vase and a single fake flower in the centre.

George stood behind the girls, vaguely eyeing up the flavours in the steel containers behind the counter. Hermione absentmindedly twirled a curl that fell past her ear as she decided on a flavour. It fell on the dip of her neck, resting on her fair skin. At the worst moment possible, Ginny glanced over her shoulder and noticed him watching. Her eyes widened, her top lip pulling into a knowing smirk that sent a spike of ice through George’s heart.

 _No, that’s not – he wasn’t looking at her like tha_ t, he wanted to protest but she had already turned back to the counter. George’s heart hammered furiously in his chest. What was Ginny thinking? Would she say something? _Fuck_.

“A scoop of lemon sorbet, please,” Hermione told the woman behind the till. She looked over at George, raising her eyebrows in question.

“Uh, a scoop of chocolate. Please.” He said without thinking. He hadn’t even looked at the labels.

“How boring,” Ginny tutted, “a scoop of bubblegum and one of tirmisu. And a flake. And strawberry sauce, please.”

The shop attendant looked confused, but obliged and lined up their orders in the metal holder on the counter. Hermione paid, with what sounded like the last of her coins.

“Merlin, Gin, you’re so weird. Are you sure we’re related?” George said, taking his ice-cream and stepping into the bright sunshine that had broken through the cloud cover.

“Bugger off! You can talk, with your _plain_ chocolate. Seriously George, boring much?” Ginny stuck her tongue out at him, then began attacking her odd combination of flavours.

They settled on a bench outside, and George instantly started people watching again. There were plenty of muggles meandering past by themselves or in groups, friends meeting for lunch or a cup of coffee and not paying any attention to the wizard and witches sat on the old bench. The atmosphere was so relaxed and cheerful, George could spend all day walking around the city and finding out more about the muggle side of the city.

 _I absolutely love it here_ , he thought.

The cone was beautifully cold and refreshing, the creamy chocolate freezing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and making him shiver despite the warm June day. Hermione hummed quietly as they made short work of their treats.

When Ginny had polished off the last of her eclectic ice-cream, he checked his wristwatch and stuffed the napkin in his pocket. “It’s coming up to four. Do we have time for the record shops?”

“Sure we can, there’s one just opposite,” Hermione pointed to the terraced shops on the other side, “and a stall over on the other side of the square.”

George grinned, momentarily distracted by the smear of lemon sorbet on Hermione’s top lip.

“Err, Granger? You might want to...” he made a wiping movement in front of his own mouth to show her that she’d missed a spot. Her cheeks went bright red as she hurriedly wiped her lips and cleaned it off with the back of her hand.

 _Shame_.

Ginny stood up, interrupting his thoughts and grabbing George by the arm, heaving him upright. “Come on then, lazybones.”

He groaned and stood up, Hermione catching up with them as Ginny frogmarched them into the tatty shop. It was grungy and grimy in a way that made George certain there was real history here, with thick wooden beams across the ceiling and posters of muggle bands overlapping over each surface. Tinny rock music blared through the overhead speaker, ensnared in wires. Ginny let go of his arm and sped off, running her hands over the scores of upright vinyl sleeves divided into genres and decades.

“Woah,” George muttered. This was a lot to take in.

“Do you want to start with the 70s?” Hermione asked helpfully. He nodded.

It was stupid, in a way, coming here in the first place. He didn’t even _have_ a record player – and he had no clue if he could even get a muggle one to work properly. Maybe their Dad could have a tinker and play around with one, like Lee had a few years ago before Fred and George left school.

 _Yes! Lee!_ It was like a _lumos_ had gone off in his head _._ He could ask to borrow Lee’s for a while – and it would give them a chance to see him again when he got back from visiting family in Spain. _Nice_.

“George? Hello? You there?” Hermione clicked her fingers in front of his face.

“Sorry! Yes. 70s, good shout.”

Ginny was somewhere in the depths of the back of the shop, and George couldn’t believe how many different bands and albums there were. There had to be _thousands_ in this place alone, and he’d never heard of almost all of them. He spotted a few that he recognised from the radio amongst the different decades, and his heart soared at the names he liked; Fleetwood Mac, Supertramp, Foreigner, Queen – and even...

“Boney M! A-ha!” Hermione exclaimed, laughing as she lifted a purple sleeve out of the pile.

George blushed, having forgotten the embarrassment of the morning already.

“Don’t be such a wuss,” Hermione grinned as she read the back cover, “I won’t tell your brothers. But we have to get it!”

“Granger, I don’t have any muggle money,” he reminded her. She shrugged, not put off.

“I have some savings. It’s not much, but I can buy this for you now, and you pay me back in galleons later,” she whispered, making sure the muggle shop clerk couldn’t hear.

It didn’t feel right to him, considering how well the shop had been doing, but it was his fault he was unprepared and hadn’t gone to Gringotts to exchange some of his own money. Which he definitely needed to do when he came back with Fred.

“Ok, fine. That would be great, thanks,” he hesitated, “can I hold it?”

Hermione passed it over, his fingers lightly brushing against hers over the exchange. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered the feeling of her hand on his, tracing those almost imperceptible shapes on his hand.

The moment passed, and she let go. Hermione gave nothing away to make him think she’d had the same memory. He forced himself not to react, and focused on the shiny sleeve, gently running his thumb under the track names.

“I can get some more money out if you want to get more, George.” She said gently.

“I- I would love that. Please.” He couldn’t believe her.

Hermione smiled. “Alright, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t wander off, ok?”

George raised his eyebrows at her in mock offence. “Remind me, who’s the older adult out of us two?”

She laughed, and left the shop. He watched her go, turning right out of the door and disappearing from sight through the window, back into the muggle crowds.

His skin still tingled from where her hand had gently brushed his.

He decided to venture further into the dark aisles, and caught sight of Ginny pouring over different t-shirts from the far wall of band merchandise and muggle posters. Logos and images in every colour and style imaginable faced outwards, concert dates and gigs from years ago inked forever on the material. It was eerie, how they didn’t move, but George wanted one anyway. Ginny lifted up a ripped black top that had a skull and crossbones on it, bleeding from the eyes.

“How cool is this?!” She grinned at him as he approached.

George thought she was bloody brave. “You know what Mum will say...”

She rolled her eyes in disgust and held the top up against her, admiring it in the mirror. “I don’t care what she thinks. Bill dressed like this all the time when we were younger! I’ll wear it at school, on weekends. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

He conceded, not wanting a fight. He was drawn to the thick black hoodies and long sleeve tops from groups he’d never heard of. George particularly liked one of them, simply called _Prince_ , sure he must have been a wizard – he looked ethereal, powerful even. Ginny was right – this was more Bill’s style, or maybe Charlie’s, but fuck it. He could pay Granger back with interest, and secretly enjoyed picturing the look on Fred’s face when he came home with edgy muggle clothing.

“It’s the middle of summer and you’re buying a sweatshirt?” Ginny questioned him, but he ignored her. He’d get a t-shirt too. He found a medium sized black hoodie for a band called Aerosmith that he recognised, and settled on a grey and blue Beatles t-shirt. Ginny still clutched the bloody skull top from a band called Metallica.

“Do you even like them?” He asked her, walking back up the aisle towards the desk.

“Does it matter? I’m sure I will.”

George glanced down at the row they were passing and caught a glimpse of a name. He grabbed it, grinning as it revealed the one album he’d desperately been looking for.

“Who’s that?” Ginny asked, peering around him to get a better look.

“That, dear little sister, is Freddie fucking Mercury.”

She scoffed, and plucked it out of his hand. Annoyed, George went to grab it back but she ducked and avoided him with the skill of an agile chaser.

“Twat.”

“Dickhead,” she replied, grinning mischievously. She handed it back and George held it against his chest protectively. He put their assortment of merch and albums down on the shop counter and stepped back nervously.

“Um, just waiting for my friend to come back. She’ll pay.” He told the young man who began racking up their total. George hoped it wouldn’t be too much.

Ginny tapped her foot impatiently as the minutes ticked by, and Hermione still didn’t come back. George’s insides twisted with nerves as the muggle looked at them suspiciously.

_Where is she?_

The door flew open and Hermione hurried in with her hair flying wildly behind her. “Sorry! Sorry, the two nearest cash-points weren’t working, so I had to go over the road. How much?” She asked the clerk.

“Twenty two quid.” Came the surly reply. The man swept their purchases into a small paper bag, hardly being careful with the delicate vinyl. George itched to snatch them off him, but settled on putting a silent cushioning charm on the bag to protect them.

Hermione bit her lip and counted out the strange green and brown notes, and put two round coins down on top. “There.”

She took the bag by the handle and lead them out of the shop.

“Thank you!” Ginny hugged Hermione tightly round the middle, almost vibrating with energy.

 _Must be a sugar rush from that ridiculous ice-cream_ , George guessed.

Hermione beamed and patted her on the shoulder and she looked up at George with a smile. “No problem. I’m always happy to help.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly, his chest suddenly much tighter.

“Yeah, thank you. Obviously, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. Do you wanna head back now?”

Ginny released Hermione and looked at him curiously. “Thought you wanted to go to more shops?”

He shrugged, “I can come back another time. I’m sure Fred would like to-“

But the words died on his tongue as a man with long, straight white hair pulled back into a neat ponytail strode past on the other side of the road, disappearing down an alleyway. A black cloak billowed behind him.

_No. No WAY._

“George? What is it?” Ginny asked, urgency apparent in her voice.

 _Fuck_.

“Yaxley,” he spat.

One of the remaining free Death Eaters that had evaded capture was strolling through London. Taunting them.

_And she had been right outside. In the exact same place as an escaped blood supremacist._

_That couldn’t be a coincidence._

George’s blood boiled and thundered through his veins as the spike of adrenaline consumed him.

“George, wait!” Hermione shouted but it was too late – he was racing across the busy road before his legs had caught up with his brain.

WHAM

A black cab screeched to a halt, millimetres from hitting him. The driver cursed him aggressively, calling him every name under the sun through his window, but George was already barrelling down the streets. His legs burned with the energy and he knocked shoulders with a woman who didn’t move out of his way in time. Other muggles had the sense to leap out of his way to avoid being careered into.

_Where is he, where is he –_

George twisted down the same alley he’d seen Yaxley take, praying he was only seconds behind. He sprinted straight down it, and – _YES_ – saw the outline of the man disappear to the right behind a stack of restaurant bins. George vaulted over black sacks of rubbish and took the sharp turning too fast – smashing his shoulder into the brick wall with force.

He didn’t stop, and followed the winding path of the back-alley round the dodgy rear of miserable flats. An old woman smoking on her doorstep called out to him as he tore past, but he ignored her.

Yaxley was fast. But George was catching up; he saw the tell-tale white hair round another corner up ahead, and he pushed his tired body forwards after him. He’d been out of quidditch practice for a long, long time and he was embarrassingly out of shape. George was almost there, he whipped his wand out of his back pocket and raised it, hurling round into –

A dead end.

But not an empty one.

Yaxley faced away from George, staring at the brick wall before him. George’s head thumped painfully after his pursuit, his legs screaming in pain and with a stitch forming in his chest.

“Nice try, blood traitor.” Yaxley purred in his heavy Scottish accent.

“ _Stupefy_!”

He deflected George’s spell instantly, causing it to ricochet off the wall. George ducked in time for it to shatter a window above his head.

“Stupid child,” Yaxley hissed, “pureblood or not, you’ll pay for that.”

The old man turned towards George, and he gasped in horror at his savaged face. A scar took up the entirety of the left side of his face, a blind white eye shining through a bruised socket. The skin was mottled with cuts, twisting and sagging downwards in a permeant grimace, completely disfigured.

George lunged forwards, “ _Expelliarmus_! _Incarcero_!” He shouted with no success – Yaxley deflected them easily with a strong _protego_ cast around himself.

“ _Silencio_!” Yaxley roared, and George could no longer speak, his vocal chords muted. The Death Eater rounded on him, his shield waning, “You foolish boy. _Immobulus_.”

He was frozen, Yaxley leering at him through a revolting smile that revealed cracked and yellow teeth. George couldn’t move, his arms rigid and unable to cast any form of spell or protection.

This was it.

" _CRUC_ -"

 _Crack_ ,

“ _Expeliarmus_!”

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!”

Ginny and Hermione apparated out of thin air, both casting at the same time. Yaxley’s wand flew out towards Ginny who caught it as he fell to the ground with a thump, petrified.

“Ginny, send a patronus to your dad. Get him to bring someone from Magical Law Enforcement, I don’t want to risk apparating with him.” Hermione said, calmly drawing binds around Yaxley’s arms and feet.

Ginny muttered urgently to the white horse she conjured, and it cantered off until it faded from sight – a whisp of glowing silver hung in the air where it disappeared.

“Finite,” Hermione pointed her wand at George, and he felt warmth and feeling return through his body. He sank to his knees, gasping for air.

“What,” Hermione said flatly, “the _HELL_ were you thinking, George Fabian Weasley?”

He balked.

“Uh-“

“Precisely. You weren’t.” Hermione snapped, looking absolutely furious. She crossed her arms and glared at him with such disdain he felt any reasoning or arguments he would have made completely abandon him. Ginny also had a face like thunder.

“Did it not occur to you that three people against a Death Eater would be better than one? Or that we could have informed the Ministry and not tipped him off that he’d been _spotted_? That was almost a trap!” Hermione’s voice raised in indignation, seething.

George wilted under her gaze, common sense returning to him now the pressure and adrenaline was starting to wear off.

“No,” he said quietly, “I - I didn’t think about that.” He looked up to see Hermione shaking her head in disbelief. Her disappointment – and the idea that he’d actually put her and Ginny in more danger by making them come after him – rocked his core. _Shit_.

_Crack_

The alleyway suddenly filled with multiple voices shouting out as Arthur and three aurors apparated into the space.

“Girls! George! Are you okay?” Mr Weasley looked between them as the aurors surrounded Yaxley on the floor.

“We’re fine, Dad. Not a scratch,” Ginny hugged him tightly, resting her head on his shoulder. “I – err – might have broken the trace, though.”

Arthur tutted, “Never mind that now,” he said quietly, “it was unavoidable. I’ll sort it.”

George didn’t stand even though his legs had stopped shaking. A single thought seared through his mind, and the world around him became muffled and distorted. He couldn’t hear what the Magical Law Enforcement were saying to Hermione as Yaxley’s body was levitated off the ground. He couldn’t focus on the words his father was saying to him as he crouched down next to him on the tarmac.

_He’d failed. When it mattered most, when he needed to be the one to protect his family... he’d failed._


	14. Reparo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! Keep them coming.  
> I think I've established a good schedule for writing now, and I'm down to weekly updates (maybe twice a week if I'm really productive) of greater length. 
> 
> I'm also over on TikTok, if any of you are - my username is laurazzie. Say hi!  
> Now. Here we go...

**Grimauld Place, 20 June 1998**

Ron slid the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the dining table. The remnants of their dinner vanished, summoned away by Kreacher to the kitchen and replaced by bowls of steaming sticky toffee pudding.

“Front page, Hermione. Nice one! A bit concerning you were followed by paparazzi, but...”

She glanced down to see a photograph mostly of her, shot from a distance behind, taking up two thirds of the page. Ginny’s sheet of red hair was recognisable beside her, crouched in an duelling stance as they both cast the spells that disarmed and brought Yaxley down.

George Weasley was not featured in the black and white looping image.

“Thanks,” Hermione muttered, pushing it back towards Ron without reading the text. He was right – it _was_ worrying that they’d been photographed by an unseen reporter. But she was too exhausted and drained from the last twenty-four hours to think about it.

Ron frowned at her lacklustre response, folding the paper in half and pushing it to the side of the table. “Kingsley asked Harry this morning if you could be convinced in joining the Academy too. Harry said he sounded really impressed.” Ron downed the last of his beer and watched her closely.

Hermione prodded the pudding unenthusiastically with her spoon, breaking the mixture open and watching the caramel ooze out slowly. “Harry knows my answer already. I don’t want to join. I don’t want to be an Auror.” She flickered her gaze upwards to Ron, sounding more weary than she’d intended.

_On top of everything else, I can’t handle this right now._

Ron raised his hands in surrender, finally registering her disinterest and not wanting to push her further. “Ok. Got it. Just thought I’d tell you,” he began to tuck into his own dish, fanning his mouth when he didn’t let the piping hot caramel cool down enough. With his eyes watering slightly, he pointed down at the photograph facing up at them from the head of the table, “you did a bloody good job of catching him, Hermione.”

She smiled weakly at him, wishing Harry was back from seeing Teddy at the Burrow so he could steer the conversation in another direction. Neville, still staying with them, was seeing Hannah that evening, and even he would have been better in this scenario. Ron was far less observant at noticing when someone wanted to be left alone.

They ate together in an awkward silence for a few minutes, but it finally became too much for her to bear. Hermione picked up the hot bowl and stood suddenly, pushing her chair away from the table with the backs of her knees.

“I have a headache, Ron. I’m gonna finish this in my room. Goodnight.”

She turned and left before she heard his reply, and walked quickly up the flights of stairs to her room, closing the door firmly behind her. She put the bowl down on her bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath.

The dull, sinking weight in her stomach was still there, lodged uncomfortably in her middle. Her chest was tight with the mixture of overpowering emotions; hurt and anger equally matched by guilt and regret, clashing repeatedly and leaving her feeling constantly nauseous. The arguments circled over and over in her head.

_He shouldn’t have just run off. I could have helped him._

_But you didn’t have to be so harsh. You know what he was trying to prove, and you broke his heart anyway._

_He put himself in danger! He put all three of us in danger!_

_If he’d explained what he was doing, Yaxley would have disapparated and would still be out there right now._

_He was reckless._

_He was trying to protect you._

She had no comeback for that one.

The Aurors had taken Yaxley straight to the Ministry, after the new and formidable Head Auror had grudgingly commended her and Ginny on their quick thinking and brave actions. Ivor McShane was a tall, rugged, steely eyed man with clipped silver hair and a permanent glare – an intimidating appointment by Shacklebolt as the new face of the Magical Law Enforcement. Authority rolled off him in waves. But, although he gave the resounding impression that nothing could catch him off guard, Hermione guessed that McShane was not expecting a highly dangerous Death Eater to be caught by two teenage (and one underage) witches alone.

She had been grateful that there was no requirement for her or the Weasleys to go with the Aurors back to the Ministry, as Hermione and Ginny made their statements and explained the situation to McShane. There were enough war crimes on Yaxley’s file to land him in Azkaban for three lifetimes, and at most the girls could be called in to testify as witnesses at his trial. With the backlog of captured Death Eaters already rotting in Azkaban, that wouldn’t be until August at the earliest.

By unspoken agreement, both Hermione and Ginny carefully avoided mentioning how George had run off alone and could have been killed, instead making it sound like they’d been right on his heels the whole time. No muggles saw anything unusual so there were – luckily – none to obliviate, and McShane assured Ginny that she would not face any repercussions for breaking the trace.

Hermione had glanced at George several times during the course of the conversation with the Aurors, trying to catch his eye. Now the fury had died down in her heart, she bitterly regretted her tone with him and – although she was still disappointed in a way she couldn’t quite describe – George had looked catatonic. It was the expression she recognised as the one he’d worn for the weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, when he thought nobody was watching him burn inside.

He just stared vacantly at the floor, never looking up. The light had well and truly gone out behind his eyes.

Broken. By her words.

Within the hour, McShane had dismissed them and promised gruffly to keep them up to date with the proceedings. Mr Weasley had insisted that Hermione, George and Ginny return to the Burrow with him immediately, citing Molly’s concern at the change in clock hands to “Mortal Peril”. In a voice devoid of any emotion, George had flat out refused, and apparated back – presumably to Diagon Alley - without another word.

Arthur and Ginny shared a concerned look as Hermione stepped forward to grab him, guilt and bile rising up her throat. But, she didn’t have the chance to say anything to him before he’d twisted on the spot and vanished. She clutched at the air in vain, her hands grasping at nothing.

 _You’d said enough already,_ the snide voice in her head muttered, playing back her vicious words.

Hermione winced, a real pulsing headache forming behind her eyes, most likely from dehydration and lack of sleep. She longed for a dreamless night – but her usual nightmare of Bellatrix’s torture resurfaced with a vengeance, twisting unnaturally into Yaxley’s rancid sneer. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the scene had changed, and she found herself racing down that alleyway, watching the Death Eater tower over George’s frozen form. Panic flooded her bloodstream and she tumbled forwards, wand raised ready to attack - but she wasn’t fast enough this time.

In her dream, Yaxley laughed uproariously as he subjected George to the _cruciatus_ curse, smiling depravedly at Hermione as he kept her back with a strong _protego_. She pounded her fists against the shield, shouting and struggling against the ward with every hex she could muster, but she was unable to break through. She was forced to watch George writhe and strain on the floor until he became limp and unmoving.

It was George’s screams of agony that had woken her up last night, mixed with her own.

Pushing the memory to the depths of her mind, Hermione groaned, flopping dejectedly backwards onto her duvet. Though it was still early, with her round faced alarm clock telling her it was barely past seven o’clock, she debated on taking a dreamless sleep potion, just to get some real rest. She heaved herself sideways and grasped her beaded bag from the foot of her bed. She unclicked the popper and squinted down into the deceptively large interior, looking for her medicine box. But as she reached her arm in to pull it out, something brown and flat caught her eye instead.

The paper bag from the record shop.

Slowly, she lifted the bag out by the handle and held it carefully in both hands. In the chaos of the afternoon, she’d forgotten that she had thrust it into her beaded bag before running to catch up with George in London.

Hermione slid out the two vinyl covers, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat. In a numb trance, she felt deeper into the brown bag and pulled out the lumps of folded cloth. The soft black hoodie felt heavy in her hands as she twisted one of the string ties between her thumb and index finger. The printed logo was cold and sticky, cracking on the material. She traced the shape of the words of the band’s name with her finger, and felt tears fighting for her attention.

The tiredness ebbed away. She knew what she had to do.

Hermione refolded the garment and put it back in the bag before wiping her eyes and striding out onto the landing and down the stairs to the floor below. The second floor office was predictably empty, and she threw a handful of emerald powder onto the blackened logs, forcing a fire into life.

No matter how many times she did it, putting her head into Floo fire still felt distinctly _wrong_. Hermione hesitated, readying herself for the unsettling sensation before she called out “the flat above 93 Diagon Alley”.

“Fred? George? Is anyone in?” She called out.

Floo calls were odd for the person doing the calling. She couldn’t see into the flat, but anyone at home would be able to see her head _pop_ into the fireplace. It was like a one-way mirror, with no way of knowing if you were being ignored or not.

“Hello?”

No answer. Hermione sighed, about to retreat from the fireplace when -

“Hermione?” Angelina crouched into frame. Hermione was thrown; she hadn’t been expecting anybody other than one of the twins.

“Hey! Sorry, um, is George in?” She chewed her lip, feeling more awkward by the second. Why hadn’t she thought this through? What was she even going to _say_?

Angelina nodded.

“Yeah, he’s in his room. I haven’t seen him for hours, though. Fred said to leave him be...”

The pause hung in the air.

“D-do you think I could come over? I really need to talk to him,” Hermione pleaded quietly.

The older girl hesitated, looking behind over her shoulder in the direction of George’s room.

“I can’t see why not... Fred’s not in, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” She reached her arm into the fire and Hermione felt a hand tighten around her wrist as she was pulled through the flame. Like being doused in hot water, and then in ice, Hermione stepped out into the twin’s living room.

She shuddered at the change in temperature. “Thanks, Angelina.”

Angelina gave her a sympathetic smile. “No problem. I was actually about to leave and meet Freddie at the pub – do you think you’ll be alright here without us?”

Hermione pushed her hair back behind her ears, still clutching the paper shopping bag. “Yeah, I think so. I’ll let you guys know if he needs you.”

Angelina squeezed her shoulder before heading out the door. “Alright, Granger, see you later then. Good luck.”

“You too! Have a good time,” Hermione called out as the door swung shut, leaving her alone in the silent room.

It was eerie, without the radio playing softly on the kitchen counter or the usual hubbub of Diagon Alley during the working day. Shadows fell across the floor, with the flat bathed in a soft golden glow from the sun setting behind the city skyline. Dust mites filtered through the air, falling through the pools of light gathered by the windows.

_Don’t be a coward._

Hermione gathered her hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, and walked confidently to the bedroom door at the far end of the corridor. She knew which room was George’s because of two reasons.

  * Hermione had seen him dip in and out of it multiple times before, mostly when he was getting changed after working on the shop floor while she was sat at the table finishing her revision.
  * Fred had an endearing and ancient looking ‘Fred Weezley – Keep Out” sign on his door from when he must have been a small boy.



Despite her above-average intelligence, it really didn’t take a genius.

She inhaled shakily as she stood outside the door. No noise came from inside. Her heartrate spiked as she lifted her hand and knocked against the wood panel.

“George?”

No answer.

“George, are you in there?”

Nothing.

She knocked again.

“Please, open up. It’s me. I just want to talk.”

Hermione felt useless. Her hand fell onto the door handle and she almost turned it to see if it was unlocked.

 _No_.

She froze. What was she thinking? He had every right not to want to see her. She shook her head to clear her judgement and moved her hand away. She wouldn’t invade his privacy like that – it wasn’t fair.

Disappointment surged through her chest and she felt tears swim in her eyes before streaking down her cheeks, landing on her trainers. There was still no noise from inside, and she knew it was time for her to go. He deserved time – and space, if that’s what he wanted.

“I’m sorry, George,” Hermione whispered, placing a palm against the door. Tears flowed silently down her face, dripping onto the floor.

She bent down and propped the paper bag against the wall next to his door. Then she turned and walked back to the fireplace, her vision blurred and hands trembling.

***

Three days could be an age, or it could be no time at all, in different circumstances.

For Hermione, it felt like a month.

She stayed away from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and threw herself into revision in the office on the second floor, which was beginning to have the atmosphere of Hogwart’s library. Notes and diagrams were charmed onto the walls, rotating to the front depending on what she and Neville were studying. Books, maps and plants surrounded them, and both Harry and Ron had donated their old cauldrons to the cause so Hermione could work on multiple potions at once.

With a muffliato cast over the walls every hour, it wasn’t too hard for her and Neville to concentrate, even when Ron, Harry and Ginny were in. Plus, Kreacher kept them supplied with a variety of cakes and biscuits as soon as they felt even the slightest bit peckish. Hermione conceded that studying at Grimauld Place had it’s perks.

She kept herself so busy, it was almost enough to drive the underlying anxious ache from her mind. Almost.

Another problem had reared it’s ugly head since their disastrous excursion to Muggle London – money. Or rather, her lack of it. She had access to her parents muggle bank account for her savings, but no wizarding currency of her own. With barely any funds to her name, Hermione needed a source of income and couldn’t put off looking for a part time job any longer. She drew up a list of suggestions limited to Diagon Alley and cross referenced them with the employment section of the _Daily Prophet_ , _Witch Weekly_ and _The Quibbler_. She sat at the table with Neville one afternoon, fiddling with her quill and staring down at the list in front of her.

Every decision was thought through and calculated. She had worked tirelessly for fantastic grades in her OWLs, and swore to do it again for her NEWTs – but was now facing the most daunting question of all.

_What do I actually want to do with my life?_

Magical law had always interested her. Ancient Runes and history had been her favourite subjects. She thoroughly enjoyed research and academic achievements. She’d hunted and destroyed complex dark magic and fought evil wizards.

Each prospect lay at four corners of a cross-roads, and she had no idea which way to turn.

After those three days of searching, she finally had a breakthrough. Her application to Flourish & Blotts had been accepted, with no need for an interview. This was a highly contested position, as the shop was inundated with applications from Hogwarts students every summer. Immensely pleased, Hermione beamed as she read the note written in elegant script, and returned the barn owl back to the shop with her acceptance of the role. It was three days a week, perfect for balancing her schedule of revision while earning steady cash.

Whether it was her good grades and spotless record, or her being actually uncomfortably _famous_ that got her the job, she didn’t care. Money was money, and she could hide in the staff room from the press if needed.

Hermione was all set to start working the following Tuesday, allowing her to attend the Malfoy trials the day before.

“We’re all still going, right? To the trial on Monday?” Ron asked that afternoon over lunch.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, “we should. Lucius Malfoy can rot in Azkaban for all I care, but I want to appeal for Narcissa and Draco. They don’t deserve the same fate.” He sighed deeply. “What can we expect, Neville? From the trial?”

Next to him, Neville scratched his scarred forearm absentmindedly as he answered. “For the Carrows, the Minister read out all of the charges against them – there were bloody loads. Any time they’d used an unforgiveable curse, anyone they’d... murdered... it went on for ages.” He held Harry’s gaze solemnly, “there were memories to watch, too. They took mine and showed it in a pensive. You might have to do that if you want to reduce the sentences for the Malfoys.”

“Thanks, Neville.” Hermione said quietly, giving him a small smile. “It can’t have been easy, being in the same room as them again."

The scar down his face and chest wasn’t quite healed yet.

“No, it wasn’t. But I did it for the DA, and for anyone who couldn’t be there. It was only right.”

Neville’s words rung out and settled around the table, resonating in the air. No one said much after that, each of them lost in their own train of thought. Through the dining room bay windows, Hermione could see a gorgeous blue sky stretching across the pane. A flock of birds passed over as she looked, arching high in the air in dips and dives before disappearing from sight.

She’d spent a lot of time indoors that week. Making her mind up as soon as she finished her soup, Hermione pulled her cardigan from the back of her chair and tied it round her waist, then grabbed her bag from the bottom of the staircase.

“Err, are you off out?” Harry called from the table, seeing her head for the front door.

“Just need a walk, I won’t be long!” She shouted back. Being cooped up all day inside during summer wasn’t healthy, and Hermione realised just how much she longed to get outside into the fresh air. _And, so what if her walk might take her in the direction of Diagon Alley?_

England was having a particularly sweltering heatwave as July neared, and the early afternoon sun beat down onto the city from a cloudless blue sky. The walk was good for clearing her head, but after two laps around the nearest park she caved and set off towards the Alley.

The Leaky Cauldron was busy, a compact mess of hot bodies and cold drinks, and she fought her way through to the back door. She hurried down the cobblestones and approached the purple shop, pausing on the step outside to calm her nerves.

_Why do I never think through what I’m gonna say before I get here?_

“Are you going in or what?” A shrill voice demanded rudely, and Hermione turned to see a stooped old lady at her elbow. Age had bent her spine crooked, her mean looking mouth twisted in a disapproving grimace.

“Sorry. You go first.” Hermione stepped out of the way, but the woman just stared at her in awe.

“You! You’re Hermione Granger, the muggleborn! Harry Potter’s friend.” She croaked loudly, wrinkles creasing around her eyes and mouth.

Hermione felt extremely self-conscious as a few pedestrians turned to stare at her. She felt her face grow red and she squirmed internally. “Uh, yes. I am.”

To her surprise, the ancient woman said no more, and just patted Hermione’s arm lightly before entering the shop. Hermione was left feeling embarrassed and also flattered – certain that her chance for a quiet entry and her opportunity to slip upstairs unnoticed had been surely rumbled.

Regardless, she followed the woman inside and appraised the scene. It wasn’t too busy – she’d definitely seen it worse. The good weather likely drew customers to Fortescue’s for cold refreshment rather than the joke shop, and she easily spotted the spiky red hair of a Weasley twin. Fred looked up from the till at that moment, scanning the room and glaring at a young boy with his hands digging deep into the boxes of nosebleed nougats. Hermione saw the slight movement of Fred’s wand arm, and the boy’s hand was retracted out at force. The child blinked confusedly and looked around before putting all the boxes back and hurrying out the shop.

Hermione chuckled to herself.

Across the room, Fred glanced up and locked eyes with her. His smile sagged slightly, and an uncharacteristically serious expression crossed his face. He jerked his head upwards to the ceiling, signalling for her to head on up. She smiled meekly in return.

Hermione made her way up the stairs and inhaled deeply before knocking on the door to the flat. Not waiting for an answer, she twisted the handle and pushed it open – the ward recognising her and allowing entry.

Her breath caught in her chest at the sight of the wide hazel eyes staring back in shock at her. George stood awkwardly in front of the sofa, a copy of a newspaper limp in one hand. His copper hair stuck out in angles, and his white polo shirt and navy shorts were crumpled – giving the impression he’d slept in them.

“Granger? What’re you-?” George started, running his hand through his stubborn hair. He looked as bad as she felt.

Her stomach swan dived with nerves. “I wanted to apologise. I came the other day, but... well, never mind. I’m here now, and-“ Hermione took a hesitant pace forwards, “I’m really, really sorry, George. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

His face relaxed imperceptibly, but his warm eyes still bore into hers, hurt written across his features. She took more steps forward, braver now she suspected he wasn’t going to throw her out.

Hermione stopped just an arms-length away from him, and she could see just how _ill_ he looked. If she thought he looked pale before, it was nothing to his fair skin now. The many freckles dotted on his nose and forearms were as dark as ink blots against his alabaster skin, his eyes faintly bloodshot and under eye-bags a deep and worrying purple.

George smacked his lips before replying, “you were completely right.” He spoke in a low, hoarse voice and his eyebrows pulled together, framing his pained eyes. “I could have gotten you both _killed_.”

“You could have gotten _yourself_ killed, George.” Hermione breathed, “I – I wish you could have trusted us. But I know, now, that you didn’t have time.”

Hope flickered between his eyes, and he dropped the paper onto the coffee table. “I just wanted to help. To take him down. You’d been right outside and he could have – he might have...”

Hermione nodded, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest.

“I’m so sorry for what I said,” she whispered, “It wasn’t fair. After everything with Fred-” George inhaled sharply, cutting her off. 

_Great. Way to make things worse._

She swallowed and continued, “I should have realised.”

George sniffed and sat down wearily on the sofa, wringing his hands. “I didn’t think it through, I was such an idiot. But I saw him and I just - I wanted to protect you both. Going after him was the only thing I could think about. I wanted revenge. For Fred, for Colin, for Tonks and everyone they killed.” He looked up at her, and she melted; any anger she had felt since the alleyway finally dissipated.

She knelt down on the rug, at eye level with him. The urge to touch him, to hold him in some way, was overwhelming. 

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said quietly.

Hermione couldn’t stand the distraught look on his face any longer, and with a choked sob, threw her arms around his neck. Instantly, she felt his warm hands link around her back and pull her closer. He gripped the fabric of her top tightly, and she felt his quickened heartbeat against her own chest. George buried his head in her shoulder and it was the most natural thing in the world to her to tentatively stroke his hair with one hand. He was warm and soft, strong and brittle at the same time.

She didn’t want to let go, ever.

“Forgiven?” She asked softly.

George chuckled weakly, his warm breath on her shoulder sending a shiver down her spine. “Forgiven.”

They stayed like that for several precious seconds, and Hermione even noticed that their breathing had fallen in sync. The heat from his body eventually became too much, and she gently let him go, pulling back slowly. George wiped his eyes and gave her a watery grin. She was relieved to see the guard had dropped from behind his gaze, and though he didn’t look healthy, he no longer looked like he’d been wounded. She realised now that a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, her chest loosened, finally letting her take in full breaths from the release.

Hermione sat back on her heels and nibbled on her thumb, unsure of what to say. She decided that actions could speak louder than words in this situation. She stood up, and filled the kettle up with cold water before prodding it with her wand.

“Tea?” She asked with a knowing smile.

George nodded and rested his head back against the sofa. “Sounds great.”

She dug out the mugs from the back of the cupboard – her favourite was a tall, round teal one with white stars painted on – and heard a rummaging sound from behind her. As the kettle began to steam and she poured the hot water over the teabags, a familiar song began playing loudly. She glanced in the direction of the radio, but no – George had moved onto the floor, grinning widely at a battered record player that was blaring from besides the empty fireplace.

“It’s Lee’s,” he explained, raising his voice over the music when she raised an eyebrow at him, “he’s lent it to me for a bit. He got back from Spain on Sunday, and I’ve driven Fred mad with it already,” George beamed at her.

“I really wouldn’t have put this down as your taste,” Hermione said, pouring the milk and sugar into the mugs and stirring them well, “I had you down as more of a rock or grunge guy, than disco.”

George didn’t reply, and she looked back to see him mouthing along to the song enthusiastically and tapping his hands against his thighs in time to the beat. His shoulders had relaxed and colour had returned to his face as he moved his upper body to the music with his eyes closed. He sat right next to the player, and it was pretty loud, so he obviously couldn’t hear her very well. Hermione leant her hips against the counter and grinned as she watched him just _enjoy_ the track, with the same energy he’d radiated when she’d caught him dancing while doing the washing up earlier in the week.

He opened his eyes and panic flashed across his face when he saw her standing there. She smiled, and brought over the cups of tea, sitting down next to him on the floor. He blushed furiously.

“I like that song.” He muttered, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

Hermione snorted. “I figured,” she gave him a mischievous smirk, “that’s more blackmail material to entrust to Fred at some point.”

George groaned, turning it into a laugh. “Damnit, Granger! I need to be more careful around you.” He sipped his tea, turning down the volume on the player.

She bit the inside of her cheek to refrain from commenting. Resting her back against the coffee table, her hair brushed against the newspaper he’d dropped. The front page of _Witch Weekly_ was surprisingly about the capture of Yaxley, but at closer inspection her stomach dropped like she was free-falling. She scanned the article and her mouth dropped open in horror.

“Yeah, they’ve put quite the twist on it.” George muttered, reading her unimpressed expression.

“But this – this is ludicrous! I didn’t – _what_??” Hermione seethed, her thoughts spiralling.

It was barely about Yaxley at all. Instead it was a vivid commentary about Hermione’s dating life, throwing up questions about her “relationships” with Harry, Ron, Viktor and now – George. Her mouth dried out as she read on, hoping that George hadn’t read this passage. It even had the audacity to dig up past Rita Skeeter articles analysing her relationships from her fourth year, but wasn’t as directly slanderous in it’s approach. Instead it phrased the remarks as _concern_ for her, as a ‘single young war heroine’ with so many ‘attractive and brave male friends’.

Worst of all, somehow there was a photograph of her lecturing George, after Yaxley had been taken down. Hermione’s stomach twisted as she saw herself fizzing with rage, bearing down on George hanging his head in shame. It looked even worse than she had imagined.

_And who the hell took this?_

There had been nobody behind them, she was sure of it. Someone was tailing her and her friends – probably to get to Harry. Something had to be done about it.

The article finished with the frankly _enraging_ question of whether Hermione would continue with her education at Hogwarts or _settle down and get married_ – and who the ‘lucky boy’ might be.

_Oh, Merlin’s pants._

“Do you want this?” She asked once she’d finished reading, her mouth set in a grim line of disgust.

George shook his head hastily, “no – Verity was reading it in the office during her lunch. I may have... confiscated it.”

“Good.” Hermione tore out the pages and set them on fire with her wand.

“Ignore them,” George said softly, watching the flames eat up the parchment, “they’ll make anything up for a good story. They’ll turn their attention back to who wears what at the Wizengamot trials in the next day or so.”

Hermione laughed bitterly, still bristling from such the infuriating commentary. This must be how Harry felt _all_ the time. “We need to find out how they got those photos, George.” She threw her loose curls back over her shoulder, glaring at the ashes of the paper. And as for the trials? I’m going under the bloody Invisibility cloak, if that’s the sort of tripe they’re printing.”


	15. The Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.  
> For anyone that's following this story, I'm sorry for not posting.   
> I had a horrible case of writer's block and a complete slump in motivation, mixed with some health issues. I'm sure many of us are having a hard time right now. I want this story to be the best it can be, and to make these characters realistic and also pay a close attention to detail. It got a bit overwhelming - and so, I got nervous. This is a shorter than usual chapter (sorry) to coax me back into writing. I have big plans for this. (How do we feel about plot twists, betrayal and sabotage...?)  
> I will not give up on this story. I hope I do it justice.  
> Thank you for reading <3

**The Ministry of Magic, June 28 1998**

The sound of high heels and heavy footfall clacked formidably on the stone floor, echoing throughout the silent chamber as the entire Wizengamot filed into the room in a slow, structured procession.

George stiffened in his seat, watching with bated breath as the council solemnly took their positions and settled in their rows bearing down onto the court floor. Once again, silence fell – so thick and ominous around them that he barely dared to exhale. Even without the presence of Dementors – for which George was incredibly grateful – the room felt bitterly cold and hopeless.

Anticipation hummed in the air, sending a shiver down his spine, and he dearly wished to conjure his patronus just for a moment of warmth. The magpie on his shoulder always found a way to ground him, magic and heat flowing through his veins with the reassurance that he was, and always would be, strong.

The centre of the hall was not empty. Three ancient wrought iron chairs dominated the platform in the middle, with rusty and aged silver chains dangling from the arm rests like vipers. Threatening, even from afar. A faint memory stirred at the back of George’s mind, and he remembered Harry describing his disciplinary hearing at the start of his fifth year. They’d made him sit in one of those chairs as Fudge and Umbridge had tried to pick him apart like the arrogant and corrupt vultures they were.

Indignant rage swooped through George’s middle and his nails dug into his palms as his fists clenched at the injustice.

Flesh-picking predators – _yes, that sounded apt_. George hoped that under Kingsley, the reborn Ministry would exercise it’s power with more care.

The impatient mood in the hall had a tang of hunger to it; an insatiable demand for blood and penance from the dark witches and wizards that had terrorised the community for nearly 20 years. With Merlin knows how many uncaptured Death Eaters still free, those that were standing trial were punished severely. George could see the narrow gleam of expectation in the eyes of the observers.

_History better not be repeating itself._

Already feeling sick, he glanced to his right, where Ron, Harry, Hermione and his father sat along from him on the cold bench. They were grouped together on the far left side of the public seats, pressed up against the marble wall. George had the perfect view down across the room, as he could see the facial expressions of the high ranking Wizengamot members, and also had a clear view of the – currently empty - witness dock.

It was five minutes to midday.

Arthur fiddled nervously with the hem of his jacket. Ron’s leg was bouncing up and down as he tried to appear indifferent, all the while shooting panicked glances at Harry next to him. Hermione – well, she turned her head slightly in George’s direction and smiled weakly at him. His eyes were drawn to the light dip of her lips as he nodded his head once in return. Given the atmosphere resembling that of a morgue, he couldn’t bring himself to smile back, even though his heart soared at the sight of her. She returned her attention back to staring at the door of the witness dock, presenting a united front with Ron and Harry on either side.

George’s heart pumped faster when she was around, as it always did.

He used to not dare let himself think that she could ever be more to him than his youngest brother’s best friend – but over the past few weeks, their own friendship really felt like it was carving out its own path. Since their excursion to Muggle London (George’s stomach clenched awkwardly at the thought of his idiocy) he felt like he was showing her more and more of himself, opening up to her in a way he never anticipated. Hermione was round at the flat so often, and happy to hang out with him and Fred alone. Maybe it wouldn’t draw too much attention if George could go round to Grimauld and just visit her because – because he wanted to. And maybe that would be ok. Because they were friends, now. Real and proper friends.

And he’d take that.

_Godric, she’s a wonder._

George snapped his gaze away from Hermione before someone caught him staring. Harry’s face was calm and devoid of emotion – a careful mask that did not flinch as members of the audience and even council members themselves turned round to stare at him.

 _Politics is like chess_ , George mused cynically, _and the Ministry must find it disconcerting when their old pawns rise to the positions of Kings and Queens while defying the player_.

The Boy Who Lived, the hero Harry Potter himself and the ‘Golden Trio’, were at the trial of Death Eaters. What statement could they be making? George felt like he could almost read the minds of the surrounding audience and officials, watching their confused and wary glances from Harry to each other.

A young man – not much older than George – with dark skin and thick curly hair with a white streak in his fringe, caught his eye as he looked around. He half smiled at him, the corner of his lip twisting up into a mischievous, but not unfriendly, smirk. George was taken back (this was hardly appropriate in a courtroom) but tipped his head in acknowledgement before turning back towards the scene in-front.

Honestly, George couldn’t justify his reason for attending the trial as anything other than morbid curiosity. Fred had repeatedly assured him that the shop would be quiet – as it always was – on a Monday, and that George should go if he wanted to. He hadn’t needed to explain to his twin that of all the Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters – bar Yaxley – this trial felt the most personal. Fred knew without saying, that George attended for both of their sakes.

Their group had made quite the entrance when they arrived. Thankfully there hadn’t been more than a handful of paparazzi and reporters in the lobby, so they hadn’t had to fight their way through too obviously. The trials themselves were old news now after a whole month of prosecutions, and while the _Prophet_ and other rags wanted all the juicy details along with the odd photograph, there wasn’t much new to say about each individual trial – besides the verdict.

Or so they’d thought.

Pushing bluntly past, Harry had refused to say anything to the press and kept his eyes trained straight ahead, and the others followed suit. Arthur had steered them through the crowds – which had parted naturally anyway – into the lift, as workers and journalists alike had stopped in their tracks to stare at the Weasleys and Harry. Hermione (true to her word) kept herself covered with the invisibility cloak until they were safely down in the cold corridors of the second floor.

The sharp bang of a gavel drew George back to the present. A stout and balding man on the unkind side of middle age sat in the most decorated wooden chair in the centre of the council panel.

Shrouded in dark black robes and sporting a ridiculous hat, he was clearly the most senior of the presiding council. He spoke in a deep, monotonous tone, and read from a scroll of parchment.

“Criminal hearing on the 28th of June, 1998. For offences including, but not limited to; the sustained and unapologetic use of the Unforgivable Curses, multiple homicides of muggles, wizards and witches, torture in the first degree, the harbouring of dark magical items and the breaking of the International Statue of Secrecy under the orders of He-Who-Mu-“ The man paused. “The deceased dark wizard, who called himself Lord Voldemort. Lucius and Draco Malfoy are recognised as branded self-proclaimed Death Eaters, and both will have this extra charge considered in turn.

“Interrogators: Tiberius Romulus Ogden, re-instated council member of the Wizengamot and interim Chief Warlock, and Ivor Axford McShane, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement preside over this trial for the accused. Firstly, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and then his spouse Narcissa Aurora Malfoy and son, Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Ogden paused, looking coolly towards the side door. “Bring them in. Together.”

The black panelled door was pushed open, and George inhaled sharply as the Malfoys were escorted with aurors gripping each of them by both arms onto the raised platform.

Shock flashed through George’s bloodstream. If he thought Draco had looked gaunt and malnourished during the Battle, it was nothing compared to the skeletal and ghostly hollow of a boy marched before the iron chair and forced roughly into the seat. His pale eyes stayed unfocused as the chains wrapped themselves like vines around his thin wrists and waist, securing him in place. Draco trembled, causing the metal to clink repeatedly with each minute gesture.

On either side of him, the same happened to Draco's sickly looking parents. Lucius’ once long and shiny sheet of hair lay in tatty knots around his shoulders, a manic twitch to his bloodshot eyes. His regal and sneering demeanour that had long disgusted George was replaced with a frenzied panic, and the cool surface of Lucius Malfoy cracked to reveal the madness within.

Narcissa looked ever so slightly less bedraggled, but still had the pale, drawn pull of skin sunken around her cheekbones of someone who had lost too much weight too quickly. She moved her limbs and head sluggishly, in the same dreamy state as Draco – and George realised with a jolt that they were all under the unbreakable hold of _veritaserum_.

Ogden’s voice rang out again across the cold courtroom. “Evidence for the prosecution; the accused’s own memories, observed through the council’s pensive, and the accused’s own testimonies, given securely through the use of approved veritaserum. No approved defence or witnesses have been presented by the accused, so I move the trial forward. Beginning with Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”

With a flick of his wand, a large marble pensive glided across the floor and stopped in front of Lucius. A Ministry worker in long black robes stepped forward and emptied a vial of silvery substance that was half liquid, half gas into the pensive. With another twitch of Ogden’s wand, the watery surface of the pensive levitated above the heads of the Malfoys and grew five times in size, allowing every council and audience member to see the contents clearly.

Even though he’d prepared himself for it, George found it was agonising to watch. But far too horrifying to look away.

Years of atrocities played like a sickening show reel of malice and pain. George’s skin crawled as memory after memory reverberated in the air. Snippets of torture, of laughter, of murder and planning and plotting and terrified muggles begging for mercy rung throughout the chamber and reached every corner of the room.

_How Ginny’s textbook had come to contain a suspicious black leather diary._

George glared furiously down at Malfoy, anger bubbling under the surface of his skin. But Lucius showed no emotion and stared blankly forward through a filthy sheet of blonde hair, unaffected the horrified gasps and mutters, the whispers of judgement in the air like the thin hissings of a serpent.

Finally, the last memory – of the Malfoy family turning their backs on the Great Hall as Voldemort fell – faded away to whisps in the air.

Quiet fell across the chamber again, punctured only by the light rattling of Draco’s chained wrists.

“Mr Malfoy, do you admit to every charge called upon you?” Ogden asked imperiously.

“Yes,” Lucius muttered, barely audible though gritted teeth.

“And do you have any regrets?”

A pause –

“That we were not successful.”

_You fucker._

“That blood traitors and mudbloods will continue to diminish the purity of wizarding bloodlines,” Lucius continued in a low growl, “and weaken us all with their _filth_.” Lucius finished, glaring up at the panel through sunken eyes.

George’s stomach heaved, and he bit his tongue hard.

“Well,” Ogden said a few moments later in a low and dangerous voice, “As no defence or witnesses have been presented, I think the council has seen enough.”

George agreed silently, and looked on as McShane and Ogden shuffled paperwork and conferred quietly with the clerk and other high ranking officials. Harry stared down at the Malfoys, his jaw jutted out in obvious disapproval and fury. His usually clear green eyes narrowed into slits containing a fierce hatred George had seldom seen.

Lucius Malfoy sneered back.

There was no need for the audience to be dismissed during the council’s conferring. Within mere minutes, Ogden raised his hand and commanded the attention of the entire room again. 

“All those in favour of sentencing Lucius Abraxus Malfoy to life imprisonment in Azkaban, and a 50,000 Galleon reparation fee?”

Even though he knew it was coming, George’s chest clenched at the verdict. He quickly counted that every single of the fifty Wizengamot members hand’s had been raised into the air. Ogden also made a slow and deliberate point of counting each one.

_He deserves it. He does._

“Sustained.” The smack of the gavel cut through the air like a whizzbang. “Take him away.”

The two black-cloaked guards moved towards Lucius’ twitching form and removed the chains from his arms, replacing them with handcuffs that linked his hands together with a succinct _clunk_.

Draco’s glazed eyes followed his father’s stooped body as he was removed from the floor and escorted out of the side door. He mouthed wordlessly, and George could just make out the word ‘father’ being repeated over and over again.

Narcissa’s controlled facade slipped. She let out a distraught moaning sound weakly by Draco’s side. It sent goosebumps down George’s arms.

“This is barbaric,” Hermione whispered, her voice carrying over the sound of whimpering. Her eyes were trained onto the back of Ogden’s head, her mouth set in a firm grimace.

“You can’t think they could have let him off?” Ron whispered back incredulously.

“No, of course not,” she hissed back, “but they’re not in their right _minds_.”

George was tempted to agree with her. It was like watching ghouls – Narcissa and Draco seemed to understand what was happening, but their reactions were limited. It didn’t sit right with him either.

“Narcissa Aurora Malfoy. You are likewise charged with the aforementioned crimes. Again, as there are no witnesses or defence presented-“

“I stand as witness.”

George’s neck cricked painfully as he twisted quickly to gape up at Harry, who was now indeed standing up. He’d half been expecting a stunt like this, but it still caused a spike of adrenaline to tear through George’s chest.

It was very Harry of him.

The flurry of whispers and incredulous stares whipped up like a blizzard around them, and even Ogden’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the announcement.

“I, Harry James Potter, stand as a witness and can provide evidence in defence of the accused. I would like to testify on behalf of Narcissa Malfoy.”


	16. The Verdict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a block with this chapter! But - 'tis done. And I've already half written the next three, so updates should be more regular from now on. Thanks for your patience and feedback.
> 
> Keep commenting! I love hearing what you guys think.

Harry spoke in a carrying, clear voice. George saw quills racing across notebooks and was grateful that no photographers were allowed in the chamber during trials. He could already picture the morning edition of the _Daily Prophet -_ they were going to have a field day with this.

“Mr Potter,” Ogden turned around in his seat and appraised him coolly, “this is most... irregular.”

McShane leant across and whispered into his ear, and Ogden nodded, murmuring back. The Head Auror retreated back into his seat, and Ogden shuffled his papers before returning his attention to Harry.

“In this case – although distinctly _late_ – the council will accept your testimony. Please, come down.”

George watched Harry squeeze past Ron and make his way down the auditorium, standing before the pensive with his back to the Malfoys. He looked unshaken and unfazed, his calculated decision rippling with consequences like a stone skimming the surface of a pond. The whispering and mutterings of the court finally faded as Harry cleared his mouth and spoke.

“I cannot and will not dispute Narcissa or Draco Malfoy’s actions over the years.” Harry looked around at the faces staring back at him, hooked on his every word. “There is no doubt whatsoever that they have both done terrible, awful things. Of many crimes, they are undeniably guilty. But Narcissa Malfoy was not a Death Eater. Draco was – was roped in to a war at the age of 16. Still just a kid.”

A pause.

“I would like to give evidence from the night Lord Voldemort fell. The night Tom Riddle died.”

He couldn’t help it; George still flinched at the name.

Ogden kept his beady eyes on Harry. “And what evidence would this be, Mr Potter?”

Harry drew his wand and pressed it against his temple. The shimmering, silvery substance of a memory drifted outwards, and he led it down onto the surface of the pensive.

Draco stared straight ahead, tears forming in his cloudy grey eyes.

“Narcissa Malfoy could have betrayed me. She could have told Voldemort –“ the room collectively shuddered again – “that I was still alive. At my weakest, he would have really killed me then – but she didn’t. She lied and saved me. Yes, it was arguably to save her own son,” Harry paused and looked behind him at the pale face of Draco Malfoy, “but I know how much a mother’s love means. And I still thank her for it.”

The faintest crease of a scowl formed in the middle of Ogden’s brow. He flicked his wrist and Harry’s memory projected up into the air, suspended high for everyone to see.

George watched in horror as, from Harry’s perspective, he faced Voldemort and all of his surrounding Death Eaters alone in the forest. Hagrid, tethered, bellowed out and was silenced. Voldemort’s voice – that high, cutting tone that caused George’s stomach to drop – taunted him, ridiculed him.

Harry raised no defence as the flash of blinding green light came towards him.

The memory went dark. But then –

“Is he alive? Is Draco still alive?” Narcissa’s voice echoed throughout the chamber as she murmured into Harry’s ear, barely audible.

 _Yes_.

Her voice called out, farther away than before. “He is dead.”

The Death Eaters laughed, and the memory swirled in on itself, fading away.

George swallowed nervously, his eyes darting from Harry, to Ogden, to Narcissa and back again.

Ogden sighed deeply. “Thank you, Mr Potter. This has been most...illuminating. We will take this into our deliberation.”

Harry ducked his head politely, still poker-faced. He began the walk up stairs through the audience, ignoring every pair of eyes turned to him.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron breathed, shifting his knees sideways to let Harry pass and sit between them again.

“I had to. What they do with that information is out of my hands. But I had to.” Harry whispered, taking his seat and crossing his arms defiantly.

Hermione reached out across Ron and squeezed Harry’s hand affectionately. “You did the right thing.”

George leant forward, resting his arms on his knees as the trial proceeded. He didn’t need to watch the rest of Narcissa’s memories – many the same, disgusting scenes as Lucius’ – and closed his eyes, trying to block out the screams.

“The veritaserum overrides any attempt of occlumency or ligilimens tampering of memories,” Arthur muttered quietly to Harry, “nothing but the untampered truth.”

Only –

George knew that voice.

Sitting bolt upright, he stared up at the pale visions in the air. The scene swam, honing in on Bellatrix; laughing, purring maliciously into the ear of-

 _Hermione_.

Her screams tore at George’s nerve endings like fiendfyre, shattering his ribcage. Long tendrils of wild black curls draped over Hermione’s face as she was pinned down, arm outstretched, blood splattering the wooden floor.

“Let’s mark you up for everyone to see, hmm?” Bellatrix whispered, “let’s paint you a pretty picture! Show everyone what happens to mudblood _thieves_ in my vaults!”

“No, please, NO-“

Screaming, screaming. Crying. Begging.

Cackling.

“Please – PLEASE! I don’t know anything!”

He was going to be sick.

George felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling his gaze from the sick memory. Hermione had tears flowing down her pale face, her chin wobbling slightly from holding back noise.

He could feel his own tears threatening to spill.

“I’m ok.” Hermione mouthed.

He couldn’t speak past the lump lodged tightly in his throat, a nauseating mix of fury and agony.

“George. I’m fine now. Promise.” Hermione breathed, looking away. He could see the plead in the amber of her eyes, asking him not to do anything rash. His legs relaxed, the muscles unclenching. He hadn’t noticed that he’d almost sprung upright in protest.

_Because THAT wouldn’t draw attention to us._

Over Hermione’s shoulder, George and Arthur shared the same broken look. Harry had his head in his hands, and the ripples of guilt came off his shoulders in waves. The weight of Hermione’s sacrifice for the cause obviously still sat heavy on his conscience.

But Ron-

Ron was looking right at George. A mix of confusion and concern, with something _other_ in the piercing look of his light brown eyes. Realising how his meltdown must come across to everyone else, George sat back upright, willing his hands to stop shaking.

Narcissa’s memories had stopped projecting, fading to an inky nothingness that disappeared into wisps. An agitated silence pressed itself against George’s eardrum, pulsing in his temple. His breathing still came quickly, his heartrate thundering in his chest.

Still feeling dizzy, George cursed himself – how had he made that all about him? It was Hermione who had been tortured like that. Her with her arm carved and the cruciatus used repeatedly.

Not him. And yet he still _ached_.

_“I have nightmares too.”_

_“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget her – or the way she hurt me.”_

_“I think I know how you feel.”_

Her words came flooding back, and he reeled inwardly at her confession.

Any empathy – however fleeting it had been – for Narcissa Malfoy drained away and was replaced with a burning _hatred_ that took his breath away. She had stood there and done _nothing_.

She could rot in Azkaban for life.

“Mrs Malfoy, I ask you the same question I asked your husband. Do you admit to every charge brought against you?”

Narcissa’s composure held, her pale grey eyes foggy with the veritaserum. She held her chin higher, despite her pursed expression that indicated fear.

“Yes.”

Ogden made a note on his parchment, sharing a look with McShane.

“And do you have any regrets?”

“So many.”

George heard Hermione’s sharp intake of breath.

“You do?” Ogden asked, twisting his quill between his fingertips. On a lower bench, the court scribe had stopped writing and her mouth had fallen open in shock.

“Yes.”

The scribe began scrawling to keep up.

“Please,” Ogden gestured to the audience, “elaborate for the court.”

Narcissa straightened in her chair, her voice not much more than a whisper. “I regret that my actions ever put my son’s life in danger. But I don’t regret lying to the Dark Lord. I don’t care that we lost. It needed to be over.”

If the court had raised their hopes for a full and apologetic confession, they would be sorely disappointed. George wasn’t. He knew it was Slytherin self-preservation at it’s finest.

Ogden cleared his throat. “Now. All those in favour of confining Narcissa Aurora Malfoy to house arrest for two years, and an additional 50,000 galleons to be paid in reparation?”

George’s eyebrows shot up. That was... lenient.

“The conditions stipulated in article six, paragraph eight of the Wizengamot’s Criminal Justice Code highlights that; if Mrs Malfoy breaks the terms of her arrest, she will also face ten years imprisonment in Azkaban.”

Ah. _That was more like it._

This time, only two thirds of the Wizengamot hands were raised into the air. It was still enough to carry a majority, but George was left wondering if those who abstained or disagreed wanted a stricter sentence – or a lighter one.

“And those against?” Ogden asked. The outcome was clear.

The gavel came down again. “Sustained. Please remove Mrs Malfoy from the courtroom. She may wait outside.”

The guards stepped forward again, but Narcissa shrugged them off. “I can walk. Unhand me,” she snapped. Instead, one of the guards trained his wand on her back. Before walking away, she raised her hand and cupped Draco’s face, murmuring quietly.

“Alright, enough now. Leave.” McShane barked, interrupting the moment.

The guard with his wand out poked Narcissa unkindly in the back, and she walked slowly from the room. The door swung shut with a finite thud, leaving just Draco alone before the court. For the last time, Ogden appraised the centre of the room.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy. You are a marked Death Eater and supporter of the dark wizard who called himself Lord Vol-Voldemort. In addition, you are also charged with the attempted murders of Katie Elizabeth Bell, Ronald Billius Weasley and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

Draco closed his eyes. He nodded once.

Next to George, Ron wrung his hands. “Fuck.”

The charges of attempted murder – George had completely forgotten about those. From the sound of it, so had Ron.

“Now,” Ogden continued, “while Miss Bell is unfortunately unavailable for comment, we are lucky enough to have Mr Weasley with us today. Mr Weasley,” Ogden twisted round in his chair, scouring the room and raising his voice, “we offer you the opportunity to testify against Mr Malfoy.”

Hundreds of pairs of eyes found them, waiting.

“They can’t do that,” hissed Hermione furiously, “they can’t just call on you like this to comment!”

Harry shared a wary look with Ron. “He _did_ nearly get you killed...”

“Yeah,” George whispered, “and on your bloody birthday too.”

Ron snorted, running a hand through his hair.

“Mr Weasley? Or shall we continue?” Ogden called out, sounding bored.

Ron’s leg bounced a few times before he stood up.

“Oh, fuck it,” he muttered.

George watched nervously as his littlest brother slowly approached the witness box.

“Thank you, Mr Weasley. We have no need for _veritaserum_ with you.” George realised that the twisted expression he gave Ron was meant to be a reassuring smile.

It was more like a grimace.

“Please state your name, date of birth for the court.”

Ron scowled, his gaze darting from McShane to Ogden. “Ronald Billius Weasley. Born on March the first, 1980.”

“And your relationship to the accused?” Ogden asked, gesturing to Malfoy.

“Err, we went to school together. We were in the same year.”

“But different houses?”

Ron frowned. “Yeah.”

Ogden nodded, making another note down on his parchment. George shuffled thoughtlessly in his seat, wishing he was close enough to see what was being written.

“And you were poisoned, on March the first, 1997?”

Ron nodded, and looked shiftily at Draco.

“Would you please tell the court a little more about this?”

Harry leant forward, resting his arms on his knees and watching the exchange intently. Ron scratched the back of his neck, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Uh, well, I’d been... affected by a different potion.”

George’s lip twitched. _That’s one way to put it, Ronniekins._

Ogden made no enquiries into just what kind of potion Ron meant, so he carried on.

“And, um, Harry took me to see Prof- Horace Slughorn. For an antidote,” Ron gave Harry the smallest grimace – as if in apology for bringing his name into it, “and Slughorn opened a bottle of mead. He said he’d been saving it for a special occasion.”

Ron paused, weighing his words. “It turned out later, it was meant for Dumbledore.”

“Interesting,” Ogden mused, “go on.”

“Well,” Ron folded his arms, “I drank my glass first. And everything went dark. I couldn’t breathe. Next thing I know, I’m in the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey said I was lucky to be alive. The mead was poison. Harry saved my life with a bezoar.”

“That was some quick thinking on Mr Potter’s part. How...fortunate.” Ogden commented, his tone so disinterested he sounded as if he was mentioning the weather forecast. “And it was Mr Malfoy here, who laced the bottle with poison intended for Albus Dumbledore?”

Cue a frenzy of mutterings and whispers from the watching audience. George wondered just how much went on at Hogwarts that the greater Wizarding community had no idea about.

And then he remembered the look on Ginny’s face when she spoke about the Carrows, and pain ripped through his middle. Secrecy wasn’t always a good thing.

“Yeah, it was,” Ron said neutrally.

“Thank you, Mr Weasley, you have been most helpful.” Ogden flashed that half grimace/half smile in Ron’s direction, dismissing him.

But Ron didn’t move.

“I, uh, have more to add. About Mal- about Draco.”

George’s stomach squirmed, and he saw Hermione’s hand tighten on Harry’s wrist.

“Oh?” McShane growled.

“Yeah. He’s a twat – sorry. Language. He’s an idiot,” Ron started – and Hermione audibly moaned quietly and buried her head in her hands. “And I’m not excusing what he did. I just think that he could be less of a di- of an idiot, if he’s given the chance. Maybe.”

McShane scoffed. “Kneazles don’t change their spots overnight, sonny. He’s a blood purist through and through, and always will be. You think he wouldn’t have minded killing your friend Miss Granger given half the chan–“

“Ivor,” Ogden barked, cutting the Auror off, “enough.” McShane glowered at him, but stayed quiet.

George agreed with him. Every snide and disparaging comment and insult he’d ever made about the Weasleys, about Hermione, about Harry all flooded into his mind.

_People don’t change._

_Do they?_

“Thank you, Mr Weasley. That concludes your statement, I presume?”

Ron nodded.

“We will now proceed with the rest of the trial.” Ogden said calmly. Ron turned, taking one last look at Draco’s blank expression, and stalked up the stairs towards his family. Whispers followed.

“He _is_ a twat. I still hate him,” he muttered as he sat between Harry and Arthur, “and everything he stands for. That was the worst birthday ever. But he might not deserve Azkaban. Not yet, anyway.”

“You did well, Ron,” Hermione whispered. Ron made a non-committal noise and exhaled heavily as Harry clapped him on the back.

The council leaders took a lot longer to reach a verdict for Draco than they had for either of his parents. As the minutes ticked by, the surrounding audience grew more agitated and nervous. George looked down at the boy in the chair. He wasn’t sure if he would be relieved or outraged at the decision made – and he knew it didn’t really matter what he thought about it anyway.

After a solid fifteen minutes, Ogden finally raised an arm and commanded silence from the auditorium.

“All those who are for the ordering of Draco Lucius Malfoy to attend Hogwarts School next year, and the compulsory taking of Muggle Studies? Of which, he must achieve pass marks all year round?” Ogden’s eyes glinted in the flickering candlelight, “With the condition that any incidents or attacks now you are of age, will send him straight to Azkaban for a five year sentence? And the trace is extended until your 21st birthday.”

School. _Muggle studies._

That was... genius, actually.

Draco’s lip twitched ever so slightly, but made no protest. Ron snorted quietly, and Hermione thumped him on the arm.

Of the Wizengamot members, almost every hand went into the air. A few shared dubious looks and grumbled to the person next to them.

“And those against?” Ogden asked. Barely six hands were lifted. The gavel came down and rang out through the chamber. “Sustained. Take him to his mother outside. Escort them to their property. Trial concluded at a quarter past two.”

George released a long breath as the room began to fill up with noise. The trial was over, and it had gone pretty much as he’d expected.

“Now what?” Ron said quietly, eyeing the room warily. While many people were gathering their belongings and standing up to leave, a few were watching their group closely and seemed to be waiting to follow them out. Not so conspicuous now Harry and Ron had testified.

“We go quickly and keep our heads down, and don’t even look at the press,” Harry muttered, leaning in to Hermione and George, “when I get the chance, I’ll throw the cloak over me and Hermione. We can’t all fit.”

George gave a brief nod and they all stood up, the blood returning to his legs. The walkway was relatively clear now, and Harry led them down the steps at a fast pace, with Arthur right behind him. George watched Ogden and McShane conferring quietly at the base of their desks, and didn’t miss how McShane’s eyes followed Harry until he was out the room.

That man sent chills down’ George’s neck.

The unwelcoming corridor leading off from the chamber had a steady flow of council members and audience streaming out towards the lifts. A few craned their necks and even stopped walking to turn and stare at George and his family. Harry and Ron kept their heads down and weaved around them, until Harry pulled Hermione into an alcove of a doorway. In the blink of an eye, they disappeared under the Invisibility cloak, and George felt panic swell in his chest. It was safer, he knew, for them to leave the Ministry this way under the cloak. But it was unnerving not being able to see them.

Not being able to see her.

At least their magical vanishing had gone unnoticed by the nosey onlookers, and Ron, George and their dad regrouped with a gap between them, flanking the hidden Harry and Hermione to the lifts.

“It’s about now we could do with Hagrid. He’d part this lot in half and we’d sneak right through,” Ron muttered to Harry.

“He’ll be back from his trip from Grawp soon,” Harry whispered – barely audible over the clanking of the lift mechanics, “I’ll ask him to come with us next time.”

“I bloody hope there isn’t a next time,” Ron muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The crowd eventually thinned as people dispersed on different floors. Finally, George breathed a sigh of relief as they emptied out of the lift into the atrium, with the exit grates nearly in sight.

“Thank Merlin they got rid of that awful statue,” he heard Hermione whisper as they drew close to the fireplaces.

The muggle-crushing horror that had dominated the lobby under Voldemort had long since been destroyed. In its place stood a simple black slab of granite, with a white line down the middle dividing the dates of the two Wizarding wars.

The names of the dead – including the muggle lives lost – were etched on for everyone to see.

“Ow! Harry-“ Ron raised his voice as he apparently collided with thin air.

“What are you doing! No, Harry, we can’t –“ George heard Hermione hiss.

“Give me a second alright? I want to see it.”

The slightest ruffle of air around them told George that Harry and Hermione were no longer next to them. A cold chill of panic flared in his chest, his eyes searching the atrium for any sign of them. People were beginning to stare at them again – curious as to why hero Ron Weasley was standing and staring at the memorial, no doubt.

“This is a bad idea,” his dad moaned quietly, smiling awkwardly at passing colleagues and attempting to look nonchalant as he tipped his hat at them.

Seconds ticked by, and George took a few cautious steps forward.

The question ‘are they safe?’ kept rattling through his head as he stared at the stone. He couldn’t answer it, and his heartrate hitched up uncomfortably high.

“We’re back,” a light breeze and Harry’s voice sent relief crashing over George, “Sorry. I just had to see it, and I don’t plan on coming back any time soon.”

His parents names, Godfather’s name, friend’s names. So many people he never met.

Arthur picked up the pace, and George hurried along behind. He couldn’t help reaching out to grace the edge of the cloak with the lightest touch possible, just to really be sure they were still there.

The queues for the fireplaces were minimal, and right before Harry and Hermione stepped in, Harry ripped off the cloak and stuffed it firmly in his pocket.

George, as the last one through, followed quickly behind them, emerging in the Burrow’s living room to his mum frantically making cups of tea and tidying away the washing.

“- and now Draco has to learn Muggle Studies or risk exclusion and a sentence at Azkaban!” He heard Hermione inform her, already nursing her drink.

Mrs Weasley frowned, kissing their dad on the cheek as he brushed the soot from his robes. “I hope there weren’t too many nasty reporters hanging around for a photograph, they’re getting as bad as Rita Skeeter these days,” she set down the sugar bowl, dusted her hands on her apron and turned to George, “well, at least the excitement is over now and you can stay far away from that place. And George dear, Fred floo-d earlier and asked for you to get back as quickly as you can. He sounded stressed.”

George frowned; a weekday afternoon shouldn’t be too busy. He glanced at Hermione to see her twiddling the ends of her ponytail and looking back at him. She gave a small shrug.

“Alright, I’ll get back now, then. See you later, Mum.” George turned back towards the Burrow’s fireplace. Harry, Ron, and Arthur already had their heads together and were talking quietly amongst themselves. Molly gave him a fierce hug and insisted he drag Fred round that evening to check in on him.

Harry gave him a wave as George stepped onto the logs.

“Do you need a hand?”

Hermione put down her mug and was looking at him earnestly.

_Curse those damned butterflies._

“Uh, sure? C-couldn’t hurt,” he stammered, “yeah, alright then. Thanks.”

She smiled at him and stood next to him in the grate, squeezing in close to his side.

“I’ve got no plans for the rest of today, and I don’t want to start overthinking about my first shift tomorrow,” she explained.

“Well, if you’re in need of a distraction, _Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes_ is generally the best place to go,” George cracked a smile.

Hermione let out a peal of laughter as she grabbed a handful of Floo powder.

“Oh, I know."


End file.
